Kiramir
by Victoriane
Summary: Tenth Walker - Gandalf convinces a former Haradrim assassin to join the Fellowship, but the path of blood and gold calls to her again in the form of the Ring. Will an elf prince help her find the strength to defeat her nature, or will she fall, as so many have? Legomance, obviously.
1. Draw Back The Veil

**Why do I do the things that I do...yes, I'm publishing another fanfiction. I went from writing 10,000 words a day for work to doing nothing so this is my outlet to keep the writing muscle working in the off-time. **

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**KIRAMIR**

**I - Draw Back The Veil**

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October in the wilds of Eriador put a chill in her skin, but it was easy to ignore. She had walked this land before, and many lands harsher than the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Compared to the blazing heat of Far Harad, or the steppes of the Easterling kingdom, the stirring wind was refreshing. And the rain was gone; she had to give thanks for that. Now the clouds parted to reveal blue skies and the sun, painting the valley in the fire of autumn.

_Rivendell_, she thought to herself, as the Last Homely House came into view around the craggy cliffs. Waterfalls raced down the stone, disappearing into clouds of mist, making the whole world seem like a dream. But the reason for her coming, the dark shadow that had settled over the lands of Middle-Earth, weighed heavy in her mind. _Not a dream,_ she knew,_ but perhaps a nightmare._

Her horse knew the way, though it had never been here before. Something about the elves bewitched the animal, guiding it over the rocks to the carved stone bridge spanning the river. Even from so far away, with the water roaring beneath, she could hear the sounds of more horses in the courtyard. _Of course others would come. This concerns us all. _The Men of Gondor, Rohan, elves from both sides of the mountains, and even the dwarves would send envoys to Elrond's house. _It has been found. _

Gandalf warned her when he lasted visited the realm of Gondor, though she never entered the gates of Minas Tirith. Her kind was not welcome inside the walls and though she could have disguised herself if she wished, the prospect of Gondorian dress and mannerism made her shiver. So Gandalf tracked her to Pelargir, the port city at the mouth of the Great River, where she often resided between contracts. _When the darkness spreads, when the shadows fall, ride to Rivendell,_ the wizard said. She tried to ask what he meant, but the old man spoke in riddles, as usual. Only when she felt the black power of Mordor creeping, reaching out with dark fingers from the East and the South, did she understand. Her horse, a sturdy creature of the desert tribes, rivaled the steeds of Rohan in stamina, and the journey passed by swiftly. Goblins shrieked from the mountains, orcs patrolled the hollows and smoke rose from Isengard, but she pressed on with quiet speed. She was a Hasharin of the Haradrim, an assassin born and bred, and her blades were always sharp.

"Was," she breathed to herself, a reminder as the horse crossed the bridge. _Those days are gone. _A life of murder and contracts and gold was far behind her now, left in the darkness of memory. She shed that life as a snake does its skin. She'd had her share of gold and blood and darkness; they could no longer tempt her.

_But the Ring. _She tried to ignore the thought, pressing it from her mind. Still, it whispered in her ears, a haunting ghost. _The Ring might tempt you still. _

Inside the courtyard, elves glided to and fro, dismounting their white stallions while the servants of Elrond saw to their every need. _Wood elves_, she thought to herself, noting the ash-blonde hair and their distinct bows. All were tall and light of foot, prancing around like deer through a meadow. Behind her veil, she wrinkled her nose. _A silly sort of people_. She remembered the Elvenking Thranduil, and his famed kingdom in the Greenwood. For elves, his people were especially strange, more concerned with feasts and celebrations and tricks in the green darkness. But for all their festivity, they were a cold people, and heartless in comparison to Elrond's kin. The elves of Rivendell were reserved, yes, but more inclined to offer aid when needed.

A dark-haired elf, a stablehand by the looks of him, took her horse by the reins. He glanced back, perplexed by the veiled human in brown and black leathers, but said nothing. She did her own glancing, sizing up the Last Homely House with sharp eyes.

The wood elves were not so polite and a few openly stared at the curved blade at her side. But their leader, a blonde man in gray, directed them away with a few words of Elvish. His blue eyes hesitated on her, but only for a split-second. That was all it took for him to know she was a woman, a strange one, and she did not belong.

The wizard stepped down from the house only when the courtyard cleared, leaving him alone with his guest. He smiled at her from beneath the brim of his hat, and smoked on his pipe errantly.

"The shadows have fallen, Gandalf," she said, bending her head in greeting. He nodded in return, eyes twinkling.

"You are in safe company now, Sakhra. And Lord Elrond does not take kindly to those who enter his house masked." He gestured to her veil, still fastened across her face so that only her eyes could be seen.

"As you wish," Sakhra huffed and pulled the veil away, revealing cat-like features beneath. Her skin was the color of sunset sand, like all the Haradrim before, but her usual war paint was gone. Only a few streaks of black outlined her eyes now. "Does Lord Elrond know of me?"

"He does, and he bids you welcome."

She sensed Gandalf's unease, for it was also her own. "And the others?"

"I'm certain the rest of the council will gladly receive all the help they can," he said, though he avoided her eyes. Even Gandalf knew ingratiating her to the rest of Elrond's guest would be a challenge. The Men of Harad were no friends to the West and though he trusted Sakhra beyond measure, others would not be so open-minded.

Sakhra did not become a killer of men by being blind, and she read the discomfort in him easily. Still, Gandalf was Gandalf, and arguing with him was a tedious, if not impossible, matter. She hooked her arm in his, allowing him to lead her wherever he may.

"I'll be certain to blame you when the Men of Gondor try to cut off my head," she muttered, smiling when the old wizard laughed aloud.

* * *

Not much frightened Sakhra, but the ringed circle of chairs, all of them occupied by the great peoples of the West, gave her pause. Gandalf didn't allow her to stop, almost pushing her along into the council circle. Several eyes found her, but the wood elves and the dwarves preoccupied most. Both races were obviously at odds, bickering so much that a pair of men from Rhovanion were forced to sit between them. Sakhra was glad for the distraction and took the first seat she could find, next to a gray-eyed man with a stern air. Gandalf quirked an eyebrow at her, offering her a reassuring smile, before taking his own seat next to the strangest thing of all: a Halfling.

Despite her fascination with the floppy-haired Halfling of the Shire, she couldn't help but notice the man next to her. For his part, he was trying not to stare, but his flickering glances could not be ignored.

"Forgive my appearance, I only arrived a few minutes ago," she said sharply, hoping to scare him off the subject. Instead, it only seemed to incite him.

"It is not your garb that interests me," he muttered back, turning to face her. Sakhra met his gaze with her usual steel, but unlike many, unlike _most_, the man didn't even quiver. Instead, he looked at her longer, sizing up every inch in a single moment.

Her hair was dark and braided, pulled away from her face in the Haradrim style, though her clothing had the air of a southern ranger, if not the coloring. Leathers, worn boots spattered with mud, a hood with a peculiar veil. At first glance, she looked to be another walker like himself, but the tattoos on her hands and neck told a different story. Black as oil, snake-like, those were the marks of Harad. But she wore no bone jewelry of the mumak and her accent was slight, if indiscernible. She was long away from her homeland and this comforted him a bit. And because he was keen of eye, he noticed the way she leaned, overcompensating for a sword that was not there. _A woman on the council is strange, a Haradrim even stranger, but a warrior – impossible for some to bear, _he understood. _Some _meaning the Men of Gondor, his own kin, who had more cause than most to revile the Haradrim.

Sakhra shifted under his gaze, "I'm not suited to silk. And I don't think you are either." Like the man, she had done her own observing, and didn't miss the way his hand strayed to his silk collar or how he picked at his sleeves. The bruised fingers were hard to miss as well; he was a man more accustomed to the wilds. And his eyes, gray as stone, were grave and hard, the eyes of a king. _The rangers of the north are said to be descendants of the Dunedain, the blood of kings_, she remembered, thinking back to her teachings in Umbar.

"I'm a friend of Gandalf's," she continued, hoping to ease him a bit. Fights and accusations were the last thing she needed now. "If that comforts you."

He leaned back in his seat, smirking slightly. "Gandalf has strange friends."

Sakhra scoffed, knowing that all too well. "The understatement of the age."

"Indeed he does."

Against her expectations, the man laughed with her and grinned. She smiled as well, half-relieved, half-amazed. Here she was, a former Hasharin, laughing with a Dunedain ranger. _Perhaps this council will bridge the gulf between us all, to save Middle-Earth, _she hoped, glancing back at the elves and dwarves. Now separated, the races resigned themselves to glares and scowls rather than heated words.

Over the floor of the council chamber, one of the elves felt her gaze and looked up to meet her eyes. Sakhra recognized him as the elven leader from the courtyard, the one who turned his kinsmen away from her. She held his gaze, but he was more interested in the man next to her, gauging the ranger's reaction to the strange Haradrim woman. Something, perhaps the ranger's smile, made him relax back into his chair, though he still looked at her with confusion.

_A Haradrim woman_, he thought, picking out the tell-tale details immediately. And though the ranger could not, the elf recognized the ring on her middle finger, a triple band of black, silver and gold. Hell, earth and heaven. The mark of the Hasharin. _What could Lord Elrond want with a Hasharin assassin_, he wondered, but the will of Lord Elrond was not for him to question. Or Gandalf's, for that matter. The council was selected by them both and that was good enough for him. _For now_.

When Elrond cleared his throat, immediately silencing the floor, Sakhra swept her eyes back to the elven lord. _About time_, she thought, eager to be through with this council so Gandalf could speak his riddles and give her his task.

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old," Lord Elrond said, his hard eyes taking in the circled peoples. Even the dwarves sat in rapt attention. "You you have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite, or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom."

He shifted in his chair, turning to face the one person more out of place than Sakhra. "Bring forth the Ring, Frodo."

To Sakhra's great surprise, the Halfling stood from his place next to Gandalf and faced the central stone of the chamber. His hand quivered, but he placed the great evil on the stone with the resolve of a king. _The One Ring._ A gasp shivered through the council as whispers were exchanged and Sakhra couldn't help but feel a darkness cool her blood. It was so small, so simple. And it was pure evil. _No_, something whispered in her ear. _Pure power._

A Man of Gondor, nobility by the looks of him, stood from his own seat and made a plea to the council, begging for the Ring to be brought to Gondor. Sakhra could barely hold her tongue, watching the pompous braggart state his case. She had passed within a breath of Mordor, beyond the Mountains of Shadow, through Khand, tasted the Sea of Nurnen, and seen the fires of Mount Doom. She knew what darkness this thing came from and most of all, that it could never be used to bring light.

Her hands clenched on the arms of her seat but before she felt the words trail from her lips, the ranger spoke up, his own voice angry. "You cannot wield it," he snapped, "None of us can. The Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

The Gondorian sneered at the ranger like he was something on the bottom of his shoe. _Son of Denethor_, Sakhra finally realized, recognizing that look. The Steward of Gondor was a hard man to forget, particularly when there was a contract out for his head. _But I turned it down. I refused. And I walked away, though many never could._

"And what would a ranger know of this matter?" Boromir, son of the steward, said.

But it was not for the ranger to reply, as the wood elf captain jumped to his feet, incensed. Such rage from an elf, even a wood elf, was strange to see. _They are friends, great friends._

"He is no mere ranger," the elf said, his eyes alight with blue fire. Sakhra couldn't help but notice the color, darkening with his anger, like a sea darkening at sunset. "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."

Sakhra nearly jumped in her seat, knowing those names as any Hasharin would. There were many contracts taken out for the heirs of Isildur, and as the years passed and the heirs died off, the pay grew. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was worth a treasure even dwarves would drool at. If she took his head right now, the Hasharin would welcome her back with open arms instead of sharpened swords. But Sakhra would not. She made a choice years ago and she intended to live with it.

Aragorn spoke quickly, calming the elf in his own language. Though Sakhra could follow along in Haradaic, Variag, Easterling, Orkish, the Black Speech and the common tongue, Elvish was still unknown to her. She was more accustomed to the harsh, hard words of the south and the fluid language of the Elves had been impossible for her to learn. There were other Hasharin who knew the words, using them to slip within the Elven strongholds to carry out their contracts, but they were older and far more skilled than she. Unlike them, she had only killed men and women for gold. _And I never will again._

The elf captain sat back down, still incensed, though he kept his anger in check. Boromir did little more than strut back to his seat, sparing a condescending glance for Aragorn as he went.

"Gondor has no king. Gondor _needs_ no king."

Sakhra had seen the White Tree with her own eyes. Its branches were like bones, the relics of a dead world. If Aragorn was who the elf said, he could be the one to make it flower again. No son of a steward could do that, Ring of Power or not.

The dwarf was more admirable in her eyes, jumping up from his own kin to try and smash the ring. His axe was heavy, his arm strong, and it should've cleaved the ring in two, but instead the axe shattered, leaving only broken stone and the simple ring. When the dwarf fell back, the elves smirked to themselves, and Elrond himself seemed patronizing as he explained the Ring must be destroyed in Mount Doom itself.

With a shiver, Sakhra let her eyes trail to Gandalf. He was already staring, eyes hard beneath his brows. She could almost hear his voice in her head, speaking over the insufferable Boromir as he protested. _You know the way_. _You have been there. You have seen the Tower, seen the Mountain. You have passed beyond the Shadow and returned._ Again, the elf argued with Boromir, trying to shout down another plea to use the Ring. The fiery dwarf found his own opening, roaring his prejudices towards the elves. It didn't take long for the entire council to fight, bickering like children over a toy, but all the while, her mind echoed with Gandalf's voice. _Where the Ring goes, you must guide. _

_A failed assassin and the Ring of Power_, she thought dimly, raising a hand to her head. _What a match._

She barely heard the Halfling, so engrossed with her own thoughts, but the second time, his words were unmistakable.

"I will take it! I will take the Ring to Mordor!" he yelled over the crowd. Somehow, such small words stilled them all. Gandalf looked almost heartbroken and Sakhra understood; the Halfling was so small, so innocent. His were wide, having never seen the world. And here he was, offering to fight – and destroy – the heart of evil.

When he continued, his voice faltering, she almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. "Though, I do not know the way."

_I do._ But the words stuck in her throat. She couldn't offer herself, not yet, and could only watch as Gandalf, Aragorn, the elf, the dwarf and, to her dismay, Boromir, offered their services to the Halfling. He accepted them all with a smile, looking a little less green than he did a moment before.

When Gandalf's eyes landed on her, she knew her own choice. Thankfully, her feet were sure from many years of walking and her legs did not shake as she stood.

"I have walked the paths you seek," Sakhra said, taking measured steps towards the assembled group. She could feel their eyes, Boromir's especially, burning into her skin. "And I will help guide you, to Mordor and wherever you will go."

She didn't miss both the elf and Boromir open their mouths to protest, but the sudden entrance of yet another jolly little Halfling saved her for the moment. He had strawberry blonde hair and a round physique – the opposite of the rest of them.

"Mr. Frodo's not going anywhere without me," he growled, moving to stand next to his friend. She might have been amused, had he not sounded so serious. Two more Halflings – _do they grow out of the ground?_ – appeared before Elrond could protest, volunteering their services as well. Neither appeared to be very sharp, but both were full of zeal, without a hint of fear. _I cannot say the same for myself._

"Ten companions," Elrond mused, letting his eyes linger on her. Sakhra only stood a bit straighter, not wanting to look afraid in the eyes of such a lord. "You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring."

_Fellowship. We have no such word in Haradaic_.

The words seemed to hang in the air, part of a history about to unfold. She knew Gandalf felt it too as he met her gaze, quietly happy with her decision. Sakhra was proud, but not happy. There were long days ahead, full of danger, but she welcomes all the Orcs of Mordor. It was the companions, the suspicious elf and the boorish Boromir and the others who would certainly question her, that made her squirm. _It is a long way to Mordor._

But still, the company gave her hope. Boromir seemed calmer, stronger somehow, and the elf and dwarf were not bickering again. Maybe they would not only chase away the shadow of Sauron, but heal the wounds between peoples as well.

_Or the Gondorian will slit my throat in the night. I deserve no less._

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**Review and feed the beast, if you so desire. **


	2. You Will Lose

**eeee I can't stop.**

**also, thanks Not A Guest for pointing out The Living Death story. I've never seen it before, but now I'll give it a look through. When I posted this I hadn't seen any Haradrim OC stories but let's be real, there's like 47,000 LotR fanfics, I knew there had to be some out there. Hooray for finding one for me to read!**

**as for the other stories, I'm so sorry but they're all on hiatus. Maybe now that I'm on break I'll circle back to a few but I can't promise anything. (although Pterripus and What is Right are the top of the list currently)**

**another side note: I wanted to do a Haradrim version of the real-life Hashashins but it turned out the Lord of the Rings board game or whatever had one called the Hasharin so I didn't have to make one up! Another hooray!**

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**KIRAMIR**

**II -You Will Lose**

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When the council floor had cleared, leaving only the newly forged Fellowship facing Lord Elrond, Sakhra's opponents wasted no time. As was to be expected, the wood elf was quickest to voice his concern, though he did so with the utmost respect. For Elrond, at least.

"My lord, I don't mean to question your judgement, or yours Gandalf," he nodded at the wizard, "but I must at least ask why the lady is permitted to join us on our quest. Surely Aragorn would be an able guide-."

"The lady has a name," she said, her voice harsh as the desert she hailed from. "And her name is Sakhra."

"My apologies, Lady Sakhra," the elf replied, bowing his head again. But his voice was harsh as well, annoyed with her impertinence. _And he is annoying as well_, she thought to herself. _Another puffed up piece of Elvish fluff._

Boromir piped in a, though he looked surprised to be agreeing with the elf so soon after their argument. "I also feel uneasy about traveling with her."

"Because I am a woman or because I am _Harsatara_?" She chose to use her own language, and the harsh sound made them listen. They knew her as Haradrim, yes, but that was an Elvish name given long ago, and her people had no use for Elvish. "Or is it both?"

Sakhra expected them to stumble, to try and tiptoe around the subject of her race and gender carefully, but the elf did neither.

"Because you are _Hasharin_," he growled, his voice low like faraway thunder. She didn't miss his eyes stray to her ring and the gaze made her shiver. "Because you are an assassin, a blade for hire, a thief of the lowest kind. I do not think that a quest to destroy evil should invoke evil."

"Legolas!" Gandalf snapped, putting out an arm to stay the elf's insults, but the words fell against her anyway. To her credit, she didn't flinch. No, she heard much worse many times before, in more unsavory places than Lord Elrond's home. "You will apologize at once."

But Legolas didn't move, his glare hard and cold. The others, even Aragorn who had laughed with her, seemed just as stern, a united front against her joining the quest. _Legolas._ The name rang in her head like a bell. _Prince of Mirkwood. He is also in the contracts. _Many of her guild had tried to kill the elven prince, the heir to the Greenwood kingdom, but none had come very close. _The silk princeling hides a warrior_, she thought, sparing another moment to observe the elf called Legolas. The velvet cloak hid much and more, but she saw the outline of a dagger and despite his Elvish blood, there were visible calluses on his hands. _An archer, with thousands of years of practice._

Gandalf prodded him again, giving the elf a slight thwack with his staff that would level most. Legolas barely noticed. "Apologize!"

"Forgive my harsh words," Legolas bit out, like a sullen child forced to apologize to a sibling. "But you must understand my unease."

"And everyone else's," Sakhra added, her eyes flickering over the rest of the company. Only the Halflings seemed to hold any joy in their eyes, mainly because they'd never heard of Haradrim until today. They did not know her people or their black reputation, let alone the myths and rumors of her ancient guild. "I turned from the Hasharin path long ago. Gandalf knows this."

"And I vouch for her," the wizard said gruffly, banging his staff on the ground. "And that should be enough for any of you."

It seemed to be, for Aragorn, the dwarf and the Halfling Frodo, and maybe even Legolas, but Boromir still looked uncomfortable. After all, he fought her people many times and had the scars to show for it. The Haradrim were great enemies of Gondor and that was a hard habit to break. "Your people have long been allies of Sauron and of Mordor," the Gondorian mused, running a hand over his chin. "What made you choose our side? Did you sense that you would lose against the might of the West?"

She heaved a breath, knowing he would not like her answer. "I have seen the armies of Mordor, of Harad, of Rhun and Khand. The mumak hordes are many, the ships of the Corsairs even more. Orcs multiply in foul numbers and Mount Doom spits fire again. The Nine ride. I've seen all that the Enemy can offer, and I tell you truly," she hesitated, on the edge of the words. But the truth was the last thing she feared. "I think you will lose."

"And yet here you stand," the Halfling Frodo said, his eyes wide. _Impossibly blue, and full of such hope. Hope I could never know_, she thought ruefully.

"Here I stand." She felt herself strengthen, emboldened by the Halfling's awe. _At least I can impress someone. _"I would take my leave of you right now, if Gandalf allowed it. But he will not and neither should you, unless of course anyone else knows the way into Mordor?" Bleak silence met her question. "I didn't think so."

The movement was small, but Sakhra's sharp eyes didn't miss Frodo shifting towards her, as if to protect her. Though she had not felt it in years, warmth spread through her heart. _Remarkable creature._ But her eyes quickly found the Ring, hiding away in his jacket pocket. It puckered the soft fabric like it was trying to break free and roll all the way home to Barad-dur. _It just might_. Most of her, _all_ of her, wanted nothing more than the infernal thing to be gone. _But that is not true. The Ring is power, and power will keep you safe. Power will bring you home_.

"I would like the Lady Sakhra to come with us!" Frodo said, his voice chasing away the darkness in her thoughts. He looked like a child, like _less_ than a child, addressing such great men, but still they listened. _He is the Ringbearer now, and we all serve him. Even me. _

The other Halflings were quick to agree with Frodo, though the protective one still seemed wary. He casted her shifty glances, but kept his mouth shut. The smallest spoke enough for the both of them though, and chattered at her animatedly.

"Although, that hashahara talk might be a bit difficult to understand," he said, innocently butchering her language. "I'm not really one for foreign tongues."

"I'm shocked," the taller redhead drawled, elbowing the smaller Halfling in the ribs.

They were a strange sort, the Halflings; quiet on their feet and loud in the mouth. _To think, they're worried about taking _me_ on the quest. The Halflings are but a snack to half the things between here and Mordor._ But she didn't voice her opinion, not after Frodo so willing stood up for her. Even if the four surly warriors didn't want her around, at least someone did. It was a long way to Mordor and she could have been saddled with worse company than the Halflings and Gandalf.

"We will arrange for your swift departure," Elrond finally said, sensing that the others would no longer argue. They had not accepted Sakhra, but they would not oppose her joining either, at least under his eye. "Come the morning, the quest will begin."

Legolas nodded, clapping a hand to his chest as he did so. Though Sakhra had lived and seen a thousand different lives, amongst slaves and kings and peasants and chiefs, the elves were still peculiar to her. Particularly the prince, who seemed to be carefully guarding a well-lit fire beneath his cold exterior. She had met many elves in service to Gandalf, but none such as this. Even in the Greenwood, though the elves danced and sang and smiled, nothing ever seemed to stir their hearts much. Strange then, that Legolas had argued so voraciously for Aragorn – and against herself.

The Hasharin trained their own to be wary and vigilant, sensing and seeing all. She took in every small gesture, every lean, each bruise and each little tick. In those few moments, Sakhra understood that Boromir was a swordsman who favored melee fighting, that despite his size, the dwarf could brawl with a troll, that Aragorn favored a smoother style of swordplay using speed rather than strength, and that Legolas was a different sort of elf than she expected. What that meant, however, she did not know.

* * *

There was a feast that night for the emissaries, with the Fellowship in a place of honor, though Sakhra could hardly call the bleak, silent affair a feast. In Harad, feasts lasted for days, broken only when the host ran out of food and chased his guests away with swords and curses. Blood and wine would spill and all would laugh, amused by the violent display of violent delights. She could still smell the nauseating stench of vomit and sweet rum oozing across the table. That was the tent of the chief of the Tortaro, a desert tribe who raised horses in the shadow of the sand dunes. Later that night, when the savage lord brought her to his bed, she choked the life from him with her necklace. Then she stole his horse for good measure.

_That was a good kill, a good contract_, she reminded herself when the memory made her shiver. _Toratan was a killer of children, and he deserved death. _But in the quiet of Elrond's banquet hall, it was hard to drown out the sound of him dying, sputtering for one last breath of life that would never come.

"Legolas called you Hasharin," a Halfling, the little guardian whose name was Sam, said from her side. He had already put away two helpings of the main course and showed no signs of stopping, despite his size. "What is that?"

Sakhra smiled, sensing the other Halflings were also curious and pleasantly listening, particularly Merry and Pippen. She wouldn't be surprised if they put Sam up to the question. Across the table, Legolas listened as well, though he showed no signs of it. Instead, he continued speaking with Aragorn in low, hushed voices, though his elf ears heard every word.

"The Hasharin are an ancient guild," she said, choosing her words carefully. For those who did not know, the idea of an assassins' club might seem frightful. "Children are selected when they are young, _very _young, and taken to train with Hasharin elders across the southern lands. I was a curious girl, more than I should've been in my position, and for that they took me."

"You were selected because you were _curious_?" Legolas couldn't help but scoff, turning away from Aragorn. Though his tone was harsh, he was truly confused.

Blinking, Sakhra only shrugged. "It's not often a three year-old slave girl would climb a mumak just to see what was on top."

_Slave. _She had not meant to say that and nearly smacked a hand to her forehead, but somehow refrained. She needn't have worried, though; the others were far more concerned with the mumak than her station.

"An _oliphaunt_?" Frodo exclaimed, his eyes very wide again. They seemed to do that often, and over many things. The other Halflings gasped as well, understanding the word oliphaunt better than mumak. "You climbed an _oliphaunt_."

"It was sleeping, and I was a foolish child." She could not remember that night, but the stories were enough to supplant the memory. A cold desert night, beneath a thousand stars, with the mumak caravans on the move. It was nothing for her to slip out, having long figured how to untie her nightly bindings, and scurry up the platform next to the sleeping mumak. Her master beat her for it, before the Hasharin elder cut him in two. He took her by the hand, pulling her away. And that was the last time she saw the master's tent or her mother's face. "It was nothing."

But Legolas saw the flicker of something across her well-controlled face, deep in the dark pools of her eyes. _The Hasharin is a mystery, _he told himself, still calling her that though she swore she was not one of them any longer. It helped to call her that, and not her name, or else he might begin to see her as a companion, rather than a threat. Like her, he was trained to be wary and to always keep his eyes open. And now, on a quest to save the world, he would not let her blind him.

"You're staring," he heard Aragorn mutter, thankfully in Elvish. Legolas did not blush, Legolas _never_ blushed, but he tore his eyes away all the same.

"I'm interested," Legolas replied, still using his own fluid language.

The use of Elvish, of words she didn't understand, infuriated Sakhra and she barely refrained from tossing her water glass across the table. In Harad, that was considered acceptable, but something told her customs were different in Rivendell. Instead, she spoke her own language, Haradaic, and with great venom. "_Look, I can do that as well_."

Legolas and Aragorn looked back to her, their movements sharp and quick. Neither knew quite how to respond to the ragged, cursing language that sounded like a hissing version of Dwarvish.

Far at the end of the table, Gandalf had to hide his laughter in his gray beard. After all, he was the only one who spoke Haradaic and Elvish, and he heard everything.

* * *

**Thanks for the love guys!**


	3. Child of Death

**Thanks for all the great feedback, you guys are the best. And, to be quite honest MyCephei, I considered removing the romance aspect all together, but decided not to because I am a fool for 10th Walker romances. But rest assured, Sakhra and Legolas will definitely be slow burn and take a long time to manifest.**

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**III - Child of Death**

* * *

She slept soundly that night, better than she had in many months, but the dreams were the same. Painted in flashes of blood, haunted by the faces of the many she killed. Her years were not long by any count, but she had seen her share of death. _More than my share_. When the images became too much to bear, her eyes snapped open. The moon was still full and dawn was far off, but she knew sleep would return this night.

Rivendell hummed with the voices of the river and a few elves singing somewhere, plucking at harp strings to serenade the valley. The music filled her with regret, forcing her to remember how different her homeland was. Horns and drums and crashing cymbals were the music of the Haradrim, though she had not heard it in nearly five years. Not since she abandoned the _Hasharin_, choosing to flee rather than suffer the punishment she would face. _Oathbreaker_, they called her now. _Blood traitor._ The Hasharin could attack her on sight and drag her back to the guild in Umbar, to be whipped or executed or both. Some tried, hunting her as she escaped north. But she trapped them in the mountains, slaying both assassins who dared come after her. Their names were known to her but she did not bury them. _Let their corpses be a warning._

_And now I stand in Rivendell, on the edge of my world. _Sakhra let herself lean against the balcony, taking in the peaceful sight of the moon on a thousand waterfalls. She had seen many wonders in her life, but none like this. _Perhaps it is the hour that makes it beautiful, or the eve of the storm. _For a storm was certainly coming and, despite the safety of Rivendell, she could feel it with every passing second.

Far below, her sharp eyes spotted two figures on a bridge. Half-shrouded by darkness, but one was an elf and her pale skin glowed in the moonlight. The other seemed more accustomed to shadow and embraced her, as if he could absorb her light. Even from such a distance, she recognized his posture. _Aragorn._

And then another word came to her, a word of her own tongue, one she never thought she'd be blessed enough to know. _Kiramir_.

The word had a strange effect. She felt blessed and hollow and sweetly sad, lamenting for herself as well as the lovers soon to part. _I will never know kiramir,_ she understood, having long since turned her mind from the foolish thought.

Sakhra did not become a famed Hasharin by sitting still and she found herself wandering through the quiet halls. The hobbits snored behind their bedroom doors and she couldn't help but smile at the sound. _Sleep well. _She knew it would be their last quiet night for many days.

When she finally sat down beneath an arch, with the moon high above, her thoughts drifted to the journey ahead. _The Misty Mountains, the Great River, through Gondor and Ithilien_. _Then the black passes of Mordor, to the plains of Gorgoroth, where fire and shadow are one. _Just the thought made her shiver and she could almost smell the fumes, the ash, the stench of death all over again.

Her hands moved as she thought, laying her crescent sword across her knees. It flashed in the moonlight, a white blade full of fire. This was no Hasharin dagger (of those she had many), but a proper sword given in payment for a contract. The desert chief was old and feeble, barely able to stand let alone swing a sword, and gave her his blade willingly. He said it came from the Black Numenoreans, the traitors of the old kings, and was forged by a master's hands. Sakhra did not believe that, for the Numenorean blades were priceless and few, but the sword was fine indeed. Heavy and curved, a thick blade that could slice through bone, it had seen her through many dangers. The ebony handle gleamed black, carved with the language of the Haradrim, though the blade itself had other markings, ones she could not decipher. She never asked Gandalf to read it, fearing that he might sense the dark heart of the blade and, in turn, its wielder.

The whetstone scraped against the metal, sharpening an already razored edge, but Sakhra continued working the blade. The sound comforted her; it was something familiar in this strange place.

"You should be sleeping."

Sakhra was not an easy woman to sneak up on, but even her keen senses could not detect an elf, particularly one so swift as the Prince of Mirkwood.

"I have rested long enough," she answered back, expecting him to pass her by. Instead, Legolas stepped into view and surveyed her calmly. He looked like a living statue, pale beneath the moon, with eyes like stars. "Can I help you with something, Prince?"

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the rail, a picture of calm. But she remembered the fire burning deep beneath his skin. "I did not mean to be so harsh to you today."

Sakhra had to scoff at him. "I've heard worse from children. You owe no apology to me."

"Still, I offer it. We are part of a fellowship now and if our quest is to succeed, there cannot be any rifts between us." His eyes followed her movements, still sharpening the sword. _A fine blade_, he thought, _not meant for a woman. _Briefly he wished to see what she looked like wielding such a sword, but was quickly ashamed by the thought. _She is a guide, not a warrior. She is to be protected, like the hobbits. Like the Ring._

Legolas had managed to distract himself at dinner and through the night, mostly with thoughts of the quest or his companions or the strange Haradrim woman, but still the Ring ate at his mind. He could feel its call, barely a whisper against the din of the rest of the world, but still there.

Her voice shattered his thoughts like glass. "You are the least of my worries."

"Boromir?" Judging by his monstrous glares throughout dinner, the Gondorian's hatred for her seemed to rival that of the elves and dwarves.

Sakhra nodded, though she refused to meet Legolas's gaze.

"We must all put aside our own prejudices, for the good of the quest," he told her, echoing Lord Elrond's own advice from just an hour ago. _The dwarf will be a burden_, he argued then, trying to sway Elrond's mind. _The dwarf, the hobbits - and the woman. _But the elf held firm. _All have a part to play in this_, he advised, before gliding away in a swirl of silk and resolve. "Boromir will not trouble you."

Another scrape of the whetstone. "You speak like you must protect me."

Legolas bowed his head. _A burden_, he thought again. "Because I will. You and the hobbits."

_The hobbits. Happy, bumbling, helpless creatures._ _He counts me with them._ Just the notion set her teeth on edge and her blood to boil.

She drew out a cloth to wipe the blade and shifted away, but Legolas could still see her scowl. "Perhaps you elves are only farsighted and cannot see what lies directly in front of you," she said, trying to the quiver of rage from her voice. "But I bear a ring of the _Hasharin_ and a blade that has tasted the blood of sixty-seven men. Do not speak to me like I am a child or a soft-handed woman, for I am neither, Legolas of Mirkwood, and you would do well to remember that."

Then she stood, and in the same fluid motion, sheathed her sword. The blade sang as it moved, sharp enough to cut the night breeze. When it fell into place her hip, Sakhra felt whole again. Whole and angry.

She left Legolas standing at the rail, her footsteps light and fading even to his elven ears. He did not pursue her, instead feeling rooted to the spot.

_I said nothing wrong. I apologized and still she despises me_, he thought, biting back an Elvish curse. He felt his own anger rising, but now he tried to control his temper. Legolas did not go after her, not even to defend his words, and turned away to face the valley. _A burden indeed._

* * *

At dinner, Boromir had suggested riding most of the way and leaving their mounts in Gondor before crossing into Mordor, but Aragorn dismissed the idea. This was a journey of great – and secret – importance. A wizard, an elf, a dwarf, four hobbits, two men and a woman riding across Middle-Earth would not go unnoticed. Sakhra was glad for his opinion, much preferring to walk herself. Her steps were quiet and quick, not like the heavy tramping of horses. Even so, she would miss the sand-colored mare, another daughter of the desert in this strange company.

It was dawn when she left the stables, the last of her gear slung over her shoulder. The horse would be safe here in Rivendell, and looked almost happy to see her go. _If only I could stay as well_, she lamented, but that could not be. The quest lay ahead, with all its dangers.

Despite the early hour, the courtyard crowded with the House of Elrond as many came to see the Fellowship off. Sakhra pulled her coat tighter around her and avoided their farewells, knowing that none were meant for her. In sharp contrast, the dwarves rowdily embraced Gimli, slapping him on the shoulders, while Legolas seemed to goodbye every elf within a thousand feet. Sakhra just wanted to get on with it, and rolled her eyes at the display. She shifted, moving quiver higher on her shoulder. The black yew bow was small, more suited to hunting, but it would serve. _Not that I'll need it, with the elf around._

"No wonder they live so long," Gimli chortled at her side, speaking quietly for a dwarf. "If it takes them half a year to get anything done."

Sakhra smirked, trying very hard not to laugh, and had to reattach the veil to hide her smile. "I believe you have discovered the secret to immortality, Master Dwarf," she said from behind the veil.

Gimli grinned, smacking her on the arm as he would a comrade. It felt like a blow from a hammer, but Sakhra welcomed the gesture. There would be a bruise later, but she would wear it as a badge of friendship.

As the moments wore on, her smile faded and her toes curled in her boots. She could feel the edge of the cliff they all stood on, about to leap into the depths below. Another felt it too. On the steps of Elrond's house, the pale elf girl stood, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. She kept her hands clasped, probably to stop them shaking, and stared at Aragorn as he moved to Gandalf's side.

The word echoed again. _Kiramir._ And again, it made Sakhra sad.

Though Legolas's long goodbyes annoyed her moments before, now she wished they would not end, and she could stay here in the courtyard forever. Grass would grow over her feet and vines would tie her down, never to leave the safety of Elrond's home again.

_The places you've been, the things you've seen, the deeds you've done…you have no right to feel afraid. _But still, in her heart of hearts, she felt the familiar tremor of fear deep inside. Only the hard hilt of her sword, the weight of daggers and her worn leathers could chase it away, reminding Sakhra of who she was.

"The Ringbearer is setting out on the quest of Mount Doom," Elrond said from his perch, his words seeming to shake the leaves of the trees, "and you who travel with him, no oath nor bond is laid to go further than you will." _None would break this fellowship. Not for anything. _Sakhra knew men and their almost stifling sense of honor; they would not abandon Frodo, even in the face of death. _And neither will I._

The little hobbit looked frail in comparison to the mighty warriors of the company, but she could see steel in his blue eyes. It matched the little elven sword now hanging from his belt. The other hobbits were armed similarly, with swords meant for children or over-sized daggers. On another occasion, she would have laughed, but now she couldn't find the strength. These were happy creatures not meant for war, and yet the greatest war of the age would soon be all around them.

Frodo felt her glance and met her gaze, nodding slightly. He even smiled, though his cheeks flushed, not used to such attention. Sakhra smiled back, before remembering her veil. The worn, dark red cloth was from her homeland and it protected her identity, her thoughts, her emotions from the world. But now, she realized, it also trapped them in.

_All the better_, she told herself. _The bleeding heart of a woman has no place here. _

Elrond raised a hand, bidding them good-bye. "Farewell," he called, somehow managing to meet the eyes of all. He lingered on her last of all, lips pulled into a grim line. "Hold to your purpose and the may the blessings of elves, men, and all the free folk go with you."

_Free folk. Never have I heard the Haradrim called such._ But still she bowed her head with the others, saying farewell to the Last Homely House.

Gandalf nudged Frodo, letting him lead the line of companions from the courtyard. She couldn't hear the wizard, but knew he was quietly guiding Frodo away from the elvish stronghold.

With a sigh, she turned over her shoulder, allowing herself one last glimpse of Rivendell. _I will not see this sight again_.

She tore her eyes away with some reluctance, feeling herself slide back behind the veil, into Sakhra the Wanderer, the Hasharin, the Sand Shadow. The stone beneath her feet gave way to dirt and she knew they were well and truly on their journey now.

They walked in relative silence for many hours, though the hobbits chattered amongst themselves, with Gimli piping in occasionally. He seemed to get on with them, Frodo most of all, and they traded stories about old relatives who crossed paths before. Normally Sakhra would've listened, but the occasional glint of gold and silver at Frodo's neck made her put some distance between them. _Out of sight, out of mind_. The old adage proved true with the Ring as well, for now, at least.

The Misty Mountains rose to their left, a sharp and craggy wall barring the eastern sky. Sakhra named the peaks in her head, and the few passes in between, though she knew Gandalf favored none of them.

"Do you mean to try the Gap of Rohan, Gandalf?" she called out to the wizard, now leading the Fellowship.

Instead, Boromir barked a laugh at her. "Do you know a safer way east?" he said, turning his sharp eyes on her. His gaze lingered on her veil, and it made him sneer. "In my country, only deceivers and traitors feel the need to hide their faces."

Though he stood at the back of the line with Aragorn, Legolas had no trouble hearing the dark turn in conversation. He tensed slightly, but why he could not say.

Sakhra didn't rise to Boromir's challenge and her hand never strayed to her veil. "I didn't comment on your party blouse," she snapped back, gesturing to his vibrant purple and gold tunic, "so show me some courtesy."

She didn't miss the gentle rise and fall of Gandalf's shoulders as he laughed, smothering the sound into his beard. Gimli guffawed openly and even Aragorn cracked a smile. He too noticed Boromir's attire and thought it seemed more suited to great halls rather than the wilds. Legolas, meanwhile, was not amused at all. _Baiting the Gondorian will get her nowhere_, he thought, and rightfully so.

"I do mean to try the Gap, my dear," Gandalf finally replied, hoping to stop a brewing argument before it could begin. Instead, he unknowingly began another.

Sakhra shook her head slightly. She didn't like to disagree with Gandalf, but it had to be done sometimes. "I passed the Gap myself on my way to Rivendell and found it nearly overrun by Saruman."

"You passed through, why shouldn't we?" the hobbit Sam asked. He kept close to their pack pony, Bill, and always seemed to be snacking. "We've got a wizard and a good deal more warriors than you did."

"Granted, Master Hobbit," she sighed, annoyed at having to explain herself, "but I had speed and shadow on my side. A wizard and a good deal of warriors do not, not to mention Saruman's influence will have spread since last I rode."

Finally, Gandalf planted his staff and stopped walking. The rest of the Fellowship paused with him, watching Sakhra. The hobbits Merry and Pippin quickly found a rock to sit on, already tired from the first few hours of the quest.

"Are you suggesting Caradhas, or the High Pass?" Gandalf asked, gesturing at the mountains.

She nodded. "If we must."

Again, Boromir took the opportunity to needle at her. "Perhaps we'll find luck in the snows, and the cold will freeze her desert blood."

"Perhaps you'll find some manners," she said coolly, and even Legolas had to turn away. "For a noble son of Gondor, you are shockingly rude."

But Boromir was not so easily cowed, even taking a few steps towards her. He was a large man and menacing, but men did not frighten her anymore. "Answer me one question, Haradrim, and I will not say another word against you."

Sakhra almost laughed, so relieved by his words. _A question I can handle. _"Ask what you will."

He didn't hesitate, throwing the words like knives. "How many men of the West have you killed?"

To her great shame, Sakhra did not immediately know the answer, and she felt all her hard will falter.

"How many sons of Gondor, of Rohan and Arnor, how many elves and dwarves and hobbits have you slain in service to your black cause?"

_My sword has tasted the blood of sixty-seven men_, Legolas thought, remembering her words earlier this morning. But she was quick to offer up a number then. Now the words eluded her and she seemed, despite the weapons and the veil, like a cornered child. _She is a child. A daughter of men, barely a ripple on the sea of my lifetime._

Sakhra could feel their eyes watching, waiting, _judging_. Even Frodo. The Ring gleamed at his neck, poking out from the collar of his shirt. It seemed to pulse, beating like a racing heart.

"I killed on both sides of the River Harnen," she finally said, her voice thick and low. "Men of the South and of the West. I was given contracts and I fulfilled them. Prince or peasant, it did not matter. A son of Gondor or a son of Harad. I killed _both_," she repeated, hoping that fact would count for something. Her gaze fell on the hobbits, and the fear she saw there made her heart clench. "Never an elf. Or a dwarf or hobbit. They were not my specialty."

"Specialty," Boromir scoffed, disgusted at the sight of her. "Pray tell what was that?"

_You don't have to answer to him. You don't have to explain yourself. _Gandalf would be the first to remind her of that. _You have changed. _

"Boorish Gondorian captains were my specialty," she suddenly snapped, closing the distance between them in a flash. It was quick enough to startle Boromir and he flinched, though she drew no blade. "You may think whatever you wish about the Haradrim, who are, for the most part, a savage, violent, destructive people, but know that I am not the same as my countrymen. I have not filled a contract in half a decade and, despite your very best efforts, I don't mean to complete another ever again."

"I am part of this Fellowship, Boromir, Son of Denethor, and I am _not _leaving it, no matter how much you might want me to." To her own surprise, she felt herself extend a hand towards Boromir. "Can you live with that?"

Boromir stared at her hand like it was a snake. "I can," he finally said, and turned without taking her hand.

That night, Aragorn took the first watch, though Sakhra lay awake for hours. She did not want them to hear her dreaming, muttering the names of the many. When she finally did fall asleep, only the elf caught her voice, barely a whisper on the wind. At first he thought it might've been a prayer, but he soon understood her list.

_She is a child of death_, he thought to himself as he watched her toss. _And death will always haunt her._

* * *

**For anyone wondering about the Hasharin, there will be more details to come. And if you've read A Song of Ice and Fire, you might see some parallels. _Valar Morghulis. _**


	4. In A Name

**MyCephei, you are a beast with reviews. Also good catch on the spelling, it's supposed to be Sakhra but my fingers can't seem to understand that. Find and replace is my new best friend.**

**GoTeamSkipper, welcome back and omg 'this girl is blood' is going in my mental filing cabinet. It's going to come back somewhere, I promise you. I love that phrase. **

**ChelseaDagger14, I AM GOING TO READ IT RIGHT NOW. I get a little excited about Haradrim fics. Ahem.**

**Also, because there's some Haradaic in this chapter, I'm thinking it sounds a bit like Parseltongue. Thanks for the reviews everyone, hope you enjoy! **

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**IIII - In A Name**

* * *

The days took on a rhythm, beginning early with a sparse breakfast (though Sam proved to be a master cook with even the sparest of victuals) and ending with the hobbits singing at the fire. Gimli had taken to teaching them some dwarvish tunes, to Legolas's great dismay. He didn't complain, but wrinkled his nose and turned away from the fire every time Gimli's less than pleasant singing began. In sharp contrast, Sakhra enjoyed the songs that were harsh and rowdy and guttural, reminding her of home.

Together with Aragorn, she found herself designated as the company hunter, though Legolas could probably fell more deer and rabbits than the both of them. But the elf objected to killing the woodland creatures, leaving she and Aragorn to hunt together. The man was grave, but not unpleasant company, and a skilled hunter. She wouldn't be surprised if he had elfblood, judging by the way he could spot a deer in darkness. For her part, Sakhra was better suited to drudging up rabbits and fowl from the forest floor. She had hunted in the deserts and jungles of Harad; the woods of the Misty Mountains were hardly a challenge at all.

They didn't speak much on their hunting trips, though Aragorn was never rude to her. She could tell he didn't have an opinion on her one way or another, and that Gandalf's word was all that stood between her and his judgment.

A week into their journey, she waited by the designated stump in the woods, a half-dozen rabbits hanging from her belt. Sam would be happy to see them, and she hoped to get some more of his delicious stew. She heard Aragorn before she saw him, his movement surprisingly loud through the underbrush.

"Careful, you'll scare the game away," she called out to him, almost laughing when he came into view. The man had a heavy deer draped over his shoulder, and his face was red with exertion. "Perhaps we can enlist Boromir as our bag man?"

"Then I'll be dragging you out of the forest," he replied swiftly, not missing a step. "I see he's kept his word."

"Yes he has."

Her expression soured behind her veil, though Aragorn couldn't see it. But her eyes were enough. The man knew she was hurting, and not from any wound. And though she had Gandalf and Elrond's blessing, he couldn't feel sorry for her. She was Haradrim, _Hasharin_, a killer. Though she'd been polite with them, she had done nothing to calm his own suspicions. The hobbits seemed to like her, but hobbits liked anything. _That veil does not help at all_, he thought. It made her look like a Haradrim warrior, an enemy to them all. It was a shield between her and the rest of the Fellowship, preventing any from truly breaking through.

_Answer me one question, Haradrim, and I will not say another word against you._ It echoed in her head still. Yes, Boromir didn't pick at Sakhra any longer, but instead pretended she didn't exist at all. _I don't know which I prefer_, she mused as they made their way back to camp. Arguments and insults were easy to handle, but being ignored was another thing entirely. Luckily the others did not follow his example, if only to please Gandalf.

She and the wizard spent most of the time together, their heads bent to plan the paths ahead. Occasionally he would wave Frodo over, showing him a map of Mordor and the surrounding lands. Why Gandalf did, Sakhra couldn't say. Frodo had so many guides – Gandalf, Aragorn, herself – but something in the wizard made him teach Frodo. And Frodo devoured the knowledge, eager to learn as much as he could.

"The plains of Gorgoroth are clouded by shadow and smoke from the mountain," she muttered to the Halfling over Sam's cook fire. Frodo listened raptly, fascinated by her tales, and it pleased her. Sam was interested as well, but more focused on the sausages frying in his pan. "There is no sunlight, but the land is always hot and dry. Water is hard, if not impossible to find for _misaratar_."

Frodo quirked an eyebrow, perplexed. By now he was used to her occasional dips into Haradaic, but still the words were unknown to him. "_Misaratar_?"

"Outlanders, not Haradrim," she said, gesturing between them. "My people are greatly skilled at finding water in the harshest of places. Some say we have a nose for it."

The clang of swords sounded from the clear ground beneath her perch of rocks. Normally, she would spring to action at such a noise, but Merry and Pippin's lessons had dulled her senses. They would train with Boromir at every turn, though they laughed at their lessons like children.

Out of the corner of her eye, she couldn't help but watch as the Gondorian sparred with the two hobbits. He was a good teacher, she had to admit, and gentler with them than she would be. Aragorn kept a close eye as well, grinning at the hobbits as he smoked on his pipe.

"Move your feet," he said, observing Pippin as he parried a practiced blow from Boromir. _Stay on your toes,_ she wanted to add, but knew any of her input, right or wrong, would incense Boromir.

"You might do well to ask for lessons as well," she said, turning back to Frodo. The hobbit chomped down on a sausage and shrugged, his floppy hair shaking. "Skill with a sword will serve you better than my stories."

"I like your stories," Frodo replied. He shifted, making room for Sam on his rock. To her surprise, the blonde hobbit nodded along, agreeing. "The more we know about Mordor, the better prepared we'll be when we get there."

_Amazing creatures_, she thought, watching them munch through their meal without a care. They were headed for deepest, darkest evil, and seemed not to bat an eye. Of the four hobbits, only Frodo seemed a bit tentative, even fearful though he hid it well. _The Ring weighs on him_.

She had to stand up sharply, to forcibly pull herself out of those thoughts, lest she spend the rest of the day in hard, brewing silence. In a few quick strides, she found herself on the edge of the rocks, staring at the clouds moving in the wind. With the breeze at her back, she felt calm again, and her hand strayed to her face. When the veil fell away, she had to smile to herself, enjoying the brief moment of freedom.

Dimly, she heard Gimli argue with Gandalf, mentioning something about Moria, but she knew the wizard was no fool. He would not chance the mines, not for anything.

"You should not veil yourself around us."

_The damn elf._ Again, she did not hear him approach, but now he stood very close indeed. "I'm going to put a bell on you if you keep doing that," she said, fixing her veil back in place. He scowled at the action, and it made her glad.

"It serves no purpose but to make others uncomfortable," he continued, trying his best to remain civil. _She is insufferable. _

She smirked behind her veil. "I make you uncomfortable, Prince?"

Legolas clenched his jaw, knowing how easily she could twist his words. He turned his gaze back to the horizon, watching the mountains and the southern hills. "I am not Boromir. I carry no prejudices against you."

_I am a human woman from an enemy nation. Your prejudices are too many to count. _"I did not know the Prince of Mirkwood was so skilled at lying."

He would have argued, but a dark shadow in the sky drew his eyes. Sakhra followed his gaze, eyes narrowed, until shouting drew her back. She turned to see the hobbits scrabbling on the ground with Boromir, all of them laughing. When Aragorn joined the fray, tripped up by the hobbits, she regretted she could not join them.

Wary as always, Sam didn't laugh at the display, turning instead to the sky. He saw it too. "What is that?"

_A dark cloud. An omen?_ She squinted, quietly cursing her human eyesight. As the breeze stirred at her back, cold realization swept through her. _It moves against the wind_.

"Crebain from Dunland!" Legolas shouted, and then his hand was on hers, dragging her back to the rocks. Normally she would've shrugged him off, not needing the elf to mind her, but now was not the time for fights. _The eyes of Isengard are coming._

The Fellowship moved swiftly, dousing their fires and hiding their gear at blinding speed. They made sure to hide the hobbits first, though the small folk were skilled at going unseen and disappeared behind the rocks. Sakhra herself had a talent for hiding and quickly slipped into a red-leaved crop of bushes. In her black and brown leathers, with her maroon veil, even Legolas could hardly see her against the foliage. Only her eyes gleamed out, two brown gems sparkling in the sunlight. From his own hiding space, Legolas kept watch on her and couldn't help but flinch as the birds came screaming.

They were well and truly hidden by the time the Crebain reached their rocks, but the birds screeched and searched, swirling around the hilltop. Sakhra would call it a miracle if they saw nothing, and despaired. _Saruman has found us._ She fought the urge to pick a bird out of the air, to cut it open and spill its blood as a warning to all the others, but that would be foolish. _Those are the acts of a barbarian, of the Haradrim. You are not that anymore._ Instead she waited in boiling stillness, her nerves surging with every croak of the birds. When they finally disappeared, black wings fading into the sunlight, she felt the sudden urge to run.

Gandalf met her eyes as he emerged from his hiding spot, his hat in hand. "Spies of Saruman," he muttered, almost cursing to himself. "You were right, Sakhra. The passage south is being watched."

Sakhra should've felt triumphant, proud even, but it never came. Instead she sighed aloud and kicked at the rocks. "The High Pass is far behind us now, too far to turn back," she said, and Gandalf nodded.

She shivered in anticipation of Gandalf's choice, knowing what they would have to face.

"We must take the Pass of Caradhas."

* * *

The snows were waist-deep and despite the bright sunlight of the new day, it chilled her blood. _I am a daughter of the desert. I was not meant for paths like this._ But complaining, stumbling or even shivering would only prove Boromir right, so she walked on in earnest. Gandalf led them, cutting a path that Boromir widened with his broad strides so the hobbits could pass. She remained by Frodo, watching him in Sam's stead as the hobbit had gone to attend the pony.

Merry and Pippin amused themselves by making snowballs, tossing them at Boromir or Gimli. Both chuckled heartily, and Boromir even responded with a few massive snowballs of his own. _He is kind to the hobbits, at least. His heart is not completely cold._

"Dwarves are not meant for the snow," Gimli grumbled to himself, his iron-shod feet slipping on the slope. "We live in the mountains, not _on_ them. The mines of-."

"Gimli, if you mention Moria one more time, I shall call down a snowstorm to follow you for the rest of your days," Gandalf snapped back, glancing over his shoulder at the weary dwarf. Gimli blustered, but something in Gandalf's eyes told him not to press the matter.

Sakhra laughed into her veil, now very glad for its warmth. "And what is so amusing to you, Sakhra Shastaskar?" Gandalf continued. _The snow has made him quite irritable_.

"Nothing at all, Master Gandalf," she called back, not wanting to tease the wizard further. "Carry on."

"Sakhra Shastaskar," Pippin mumbled slowly, turning the words over in his mouth. "I think I'd sooner be able to speak the tongues of birds than Haradaic."

Legolas knew little of the Haradaic language, but enough to know that Shastakar was not a family name. _Sand Shadow._ The _Hasharin_ would not give out that title freely. _What did she do to earn it?_

"Remind me never to tell you my full name, then," Sakhra said, elbowing Pippin a little. Of course, that set the hobbits on edge and they bounced around her, begging and pleading to hear her true name. The others were not so open, but Legolas listened in earnest and even Boromir found himself waiting for her answer.

"We'll reach Mordor before she even finishes," Aragorn warned, smirking a bit.

His own knowledge of the Haradaic was greater than Legolas's, having fought against the corsairs of Umbar as well as traveled throughout Near Harad in younger days. The few Haradrim he had known were enemies, but he remembered their speech, full of growls and hisses and unending sound. But he had never seen a _Hasharin_, not in Umbar or the deserts. They were a hidden people, unknown to most, and a myth to the rest. _To think one would join the quest to destroy the Ring_ – it almost made his head spin.

"It can't be worse than _Khuzdul_," Gimli said, before speaking aloud his own name in the language of the dwarves. It was short but guttural, like wind howling through rock.

Legolas tried not to scowl at the sound of Dwarvish. "I must agree with the dwarf."

"And I suppose yours is much better?" Gimli bellowed, turning to look at him. Instead, he found himself level with the elf's feet as he pranced upon the snow.

Legolas grinned to himself, pleased to have shown up the dwarf yet again. "_Legolas Thranduillion_," he replied, putting the Elvish lilt to his voice. Though she hated Elvish because she couldn't understand it, Sakhra certainly heard the beauty in the words. _Not like Haradaic._

"I would tell you all my names," Gandalf began, glad that they seemed to warming to each other, "But I fear only Legolas would live to see the end of that."

More laughter rumbled through the Fellowship, uniting them in that single moment. For a second, Sakhra forgot she was the outlander here. That is until Frodo tugged on her sleeve, his blue eyes wide and undeniable.

"Tell us, Sakhra. Tell us your name, too."

She heaved a breath, knowing she would sorely need it to get through. "You must remember, our names our long because they – they tell our story. Our parents, our station, and even who we become. Our names are always changing."

_Would it change again? _she wondered to herself. _I truly hope so._

They kept moving through the snow, the only noise their footsteps as all waited for her to continue. Again, Frodo touched her arm, and she relented.

"_Sakhra Kezrasha, sazgirak Rikahran Serprons, zi Harsatara Karskars, Shastaskar, Hasharina Mez, Otorana na Otarala._" She bit her lip, hating the last word for what it meant and loving herself for having earned it. "_Onsatara._"

She knew Gandalf understood the word and how it came to be hers, but prayed the others would not. It was a shameful thing to be called, and the word twisted in her like a knife.

The others seemed too shocked to respond, surprised that such a long name could belong to one person. "You Haradrim might be at risk of running out of words if everything goes along like that," Sam finally said, bringing them out of their silence.

"I assure you, Sam, the Haradrim do not want for words," she answered with a half-smile. "My people are not exactly talkative."

"What does it mean?" Merry asked, not knowing how personal a name was, particularly to outsiders. He didn't sense her unease, but the older men did. _They might not understand, _she thought, afraid to continue.

Legolas understood her trepidation, if not her name. Some elves guarded their names jealously, hiding their true hearts from the world. But he didn't know Haradrim did the same, pouring their whole lives into a few twisted noises. _Perhaps we are not so different._

Before Merry could ask again, prodding further, Sakhra nodded at him. "Very well, Master Hobbit," she sighed, weary of their constant smiles and questions. "Quite plainly, it means Sakhra, daughter of Kezrash, slave of Rikahran Snake Blood, child of the Haradrim desert. That's the part I was given at birth."

_Slave. _The word hung in the air like a curse, but no one reached out to take it, and she relaxed slightly.

"The rest are names I've earned over my life. _Shastaskar – _Sand Shadow." Legolas noted she did not say how she earned that one, and he swore he would find out. Not just for the good of the quest, but his own curiosity. "_Hasharina Mez, _that's a fallen Hasharin, one who turns from the path, who has forsaken the guild and its bloody way. The rest are not so nice," she said, her voice faltering a little. "Otorana, otarala, onsatara."

"Outcast, outsider, betrayer of the blood." The words fell from her lips like blood. "Because I left the Hasharin and refused to enlist in the army, to serve the Eye and the Black Lands as all others did. Because I broke bread with Gandalf the Gray without trying to kill him. Because I am here now, in the Fellowship of the Ring."

Even Boromir stilled a bit, his gaze not so hard as before. She was still a Haradrim, yes, with a past drowning in blood, but there was more to her than the past. It was part of her, part of her name, but didn't rule her now. He did not trust her, but he did not hate her and would not again, until she gave him a good reason.

"Perhaps now you've earned a new name to go along with all the others?" Aragorn said gravely, his eyes thoughtful.

She shrugged, happy that for the broken silence. "A name must be given. I cannot take one."

Aragorn seemed pleased by that and stooped, whispering something to Frodo. The little hobbit grinned widely, nodding in agreement. He bounded to Sakhra's side, the picture of eagerness.

"I name you _terazon, _Sakhra Shastaskar," Frodo said. His breath clouded on the air but Sakhra saw none of it, so shocked by his words.

Legolas wracked his brain, trying to remember the little Haradaic he knew. Despite his three thousand years, this word was unknown to him, but not to Sakhra. She glanced between Frodo and Aragorn, her eyes wide. Despite the veil, everyone knew she was smiling.

Then she bowed her head, sweeping one hand to the side. "I accept the name, Master Baggins," she said to Frodo, though her eyes remained on Aragorn. The man only nodded in return, aware of the kingly gift he had given her.

Pippin opened his mouth, ready with another question, but Sakhra cut him off with a roll of her eyes. "It means guardian," she explained, her voice now light and cheerful.

"I knew that," Merry muttered, earning himself a smack from Pippin.

It wasn't long before they were scuffling again, throwing snow like children. But Sakhra didn't mind, so overjoyed by her new name. Even when Pippin hit her square in the face with a snowball, she didn't do more than laugh. She caught a glance from Gandalf, and the shadow of a wink. The old wizard always knew more than he let on and he knew that, Haradrim or not, Sakhra would find her way.

Slowly but surely, the Fellowship was drawing together, and she was part of it.

* * *

**God I missed writing fanfiction. Thanks for reading!**


	5. Snow and Hope

**MyCephei, sorry for the misunderstanding, but I meant beast as a compliment. I LOVE HUGE REVIEWS. There's nothing better than getting compliments/constructive criticism/thoughts from readers, so keep doing what you're doing.**

**Thanks for the love, everyone, and I'm SO glad Sakhra isn't coming off Mary-Sue-ish. That is seriously my biggest fear, because it's such an easy trap to fall into. Enjoy!**

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**V - Snow and Hope**

* * *

The slopes of Caradhas grew steeper as they climbed and the snows deepened to the point where Sakhra nearly slipped several times. She casted jealous glances at Legolas, still dancing on top of the snow. Sometimes her ran ahead, sometimes behind, but always fast and light and seemingly without effort. His cheeks weren't even red in the cold, though the rest of them, even Boromir and Aragorn, drew their cloaks against the cold.

"I don't suppose that's a skill you can teach," Sakhra called out the third time he darted past. To her dismay, he didn't even skid in the snow when he turned to face her.

He smirked a little, pleased with himself. "Can I teach you to become an elf?"

"I have many talents, but shifting my race is not one of them," she answered back, her voice sharp but with no bite.

"Bah!" Gimli barked from further ahead. He waved a gloved hand, while the other clenched around his walking axe. "Pay no heed to the princeling, my lady. It's real men who keep their feet on the ground!"

Merry and Pippin voiced their agreement, or at least attempted to as their teeth chattered. She couldn't fathom how they were still moving through the snow, bare feet and all.

"Well-said, Master Dwarf," she replied, earning a grin from Gimli.

Legolas shook his head at them, sparing one last glance at Sakhra only to find she had turned away. Her veil remained in place, despite the earlier conversations, and it vexed him terribly. He liked to see her expressions, if only to better understand her mind. _If she guards Frodo as well as she guards her thoughts, he'll be safe walking right through the Black Gate._

He wanted to speak out, to ask about the veil again, but just then Frodo slipped in the snow, and tumbled head over heels down the mountainside. Legolas darted after him, but Aragorn caught the hobbit at his feet before he could fall down the mountain.

"It's fine, I just slipped," Frodo said, letting Aragorn pull him to his feet again. But the hobbit looked pained, his hands flying to his neck.

_The Ring._ Sakhra's eyes widened, immediately flying to snow. _Lost to the snows. _Her body suddenly pulsed with the need to find to find the Ring_. _She nearly felt it when Boromir stooped to the snow, his hands closing on the familiar silver chain. He stared at the Ring, a strange hunger in her eyes.

Sakhra knew that look; she saw it in the eyes of the Haradrim soldiers, the warriors fighting for Sauron. The ones who knew his power, his darkness, and _wanted _it. _I was like them once, a slave to another. To Rikahran, the Hasharin, always following orders, always wanting more._

"Boromir!" Aragorn snapped and Sakhra did not miss his hand tightening on his sword. The action was not unwarranted. Everyone knew the strength of the Ring – and the weakness of man.

But Boromir didn't seem to be listening, transfixed by the Ring. In that instant, Sakhra felt a strange kinship to the man who despised her. "It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing," the Gondorian murmured, spinning the Ring on its chain. He seemed dead to the world, engrossed in the simple band of gold. "Such a little thing."

Sakhra felt herself staring, marveling at how the Ring reflected the sun on snow. _It's beautiful_, she thought. The Haradrim woman had seen and owned many treasures in her life, but none so perfect as this.

Aragorn shouted again, his voice sharper and stronger. "Boromir!" The man jumped at the sound, shocked back to life, and Sakhra also felt her will returning. "Give the Ring to Frodo."

"As you wish," Boromir said, forcing a chuckle. "I care not." He held out the chain, dangling it in front of Frodo. The hobbit snatched the Ring away, relaxing only when it hung around his neck again. He didn't even seem to notice when Boromir ruffled his hair, or when Aragorn nudged him on once more.

Again, Sakhra was glad for her veil, lest all of them see her deep red flush. The Ring had tempted her too and thankfully, no one noticed.

But the elf fell quiet and ceased his prancing for the moment. He could feel darkness like a cold wind and fell back into line with the others. Like Aragorn, he kept his eyes on Boromir's bulky form, but his eyes occasionally flickered to the Haradrim woman as she fought through the snow. She had tasted evil more than any of them; it was a hard thing to turn away from.

The dark shadow weighed heavy on Legolas as they continued to climb, marring his thoughts. He furrowed his brow, thinking of the Hasharina and Boromir and even Aragorn. They were of the race of Men; their resistance to the Ring's call might not last to Mordor. He would be loathe to lose them all, even the girl. She seemed to be a comfort to the hobbits, and to Gandalf. And her presence was interesting, if not pleasantly infuriating. Three thousand years of men Legolas had lived, and few things, human or elf, could keep his attention anymore. Aragorn, his dearest friend, was one of them. Perhaps the Hasharina, a mystery wrapped in an enigma, would be as well.

When the sky darkened overhead, Sakhra knew it was wrong. The sun was far from setting, yet shadow had fallen. "Foul weather ahead," she said aloud, a warning.

"We have no such thing in the mines-," Gimli began, but Gandalf cracked his staff against the mountain rock, silencing him.

Sakhra put a hand on Gimli's shoulder as snow began to fall. She agreed wholeheartedly with Gandalf's decision to avoid the mines, but Gimli's persistence made her smile. "You are brave to needle Gandalf the Gray," she said, laughing slightly.

"I do not needle," the dwarf replied, brushing snow from his beard. "But I am brave, my lady. And this mountain shall not conquer me!"

Of course, at that moment, the dwarf misstepped and nearly disappeared into a snow bank, but for Sakhra's hand grabbing him at the last moment. The hobbits' laughter echoed on the wind, sending Gimli sputtering again as he righted himself.

"Easy for you to laugh!" he growled, wagging a finger at them. "But I'll not have anyone carrying me!"

Indeed, Frodo and Sam now clutched at Aragorn, while Merry and Pippin did the same to Boromir. As the howling wind picked up, Sakhra understood – they did not want to be blown off the mountain. The screaming wind seemed to cut through her like a knife, chilling her blood, and she drew closer to Gimli. Despite his short stature, the dwarf felt like a furnace and was no small comfort to her.

Gimli noted her closeness and smiled, brushing snow away again. "Perhaps you have the right idea with that veil."

"Snow or sand, the veil does its job," she replied, tightening her grip on his shoulder. He was her anchor, and she his as they ascended the mountain in a growing blizzard.

Legolas watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, and briefly wished he could join the rest of the Fellowship in their freezing. Instead, he stood on the snow, waiting for them, pleasantly warm in his thin elvish clothes. Not even the blizzard seemed to touch him, not like it did the others, and for the first time in his long life, it made him sad. _Is this what being an outsider feels like_? The others coughed and slipped and clutched at each other for warmth, but he had no part in it. For a moment, he entertained the idea of giving his cloak to the girl, but a strange echo pushed the thought away.

He turned his head into the wind, straining his ears to listen. Beneath the brim of his hat, Gandalf watched the elf stiffen, and felt his strength falter.

"Legolas?" he called, shouting over the roaring wind. The snowstorm raged now, ripping at the Fellowship with icy fingers.

For a moment, Legolas didn't respond, still listening. "There is a fell voice on the air!" he finally called, eyes wide.

_A voice in the storm?_ Sakhra felt a chill, but not from the cold. _The eyes of Isengard, _she thought again, remembering the Crebain and smoke rising from the black tower. Gimli sensed her unease and grabbed her arm, pulling her back from the edge of the path.

"It's Saruman!" Gandalf shouted and raised his staff to the air just as a bolt of lightning split the sky.

The Fellowship flinched as one, ducking in their hoods and cloaks while rock and shale tumbled down, sliding off the mountain side in heavy sheets. The hobbits curled into their keepers, finally afraid of the world, and Boromir wrapped his arms tighter around Merry and Pippin.

Aragorn tucked Sam and Frodo against him, keeping them safe, before turning his gaze to Gandalf. "He's trying to bring down the mountain!" But the wizard chose not to hear, attempting to press on through the wind and thundersnow. "_Gandalf_, we must turn back!"

_Back to where_? Sakhra thought dimly, knowing the only other paths open to them. The Gap of Rohan, and Isengard. _We cannot go that way. We have come too close already._

"We cannot go back!" she called against the wind, hoping Aragorn would understand. _There is no other way._

She tried to follow, pushing on after Gandalf until his gray robes blew against her. She wanted to reach out, to hold onto the strongest thing she knew in this world, but Gandalf stepped away from her grasp and onto a snowbank. Another gust of wind had her stumbling but she barely noticed, her eyes locked on the old wizard silhouetted against the storm. Something warm closed around her wrist, pulling her away from the cliff edge. _Gimli_, she thought dimly, though the hands were far too gentle to be the dwarf's.

Gandalf shouted at the storm, chanting words she could not understand but they thrummed through her chest like a heartbeat. _He's battling Saruman. Wizard against wizard. _The winds howled and lightning cracked and snow blew all around them, but still she watched Gandalf. And still the hand held onto her, pulling her back every time she tried to reach out.

When the storm erupted overhead, hitting the mountain like a hammer fall, it was the cold she felt first, piercing and frozen as snow buried the Fellowship.

* * *

Legolas sprang from the snow like spring emerging from winter, easily freeing himself from the icy prison. The girl shivered next to him, tucked close by the snowpack, and he could feel her every motion as life returned to her. She punched through the snow with jabbing hands, freeing herself before he could even try to help. But she was no elf and when she tried to scramble onto the snow, she merely fell through again. He wanted to laugh, but this was not the place for such things. The elf reached forward to help her up again, but she shrugged him off, finding her feet on her own.

The veil had come undone in the storm and he could see her flush. _She has freckles_, he mused, his sharp eyes taking in her features. Now that he knew her better, it was easy to admit she was pretty, _beautiful_, with sharp cheekbones and full lips. She looked like a lady, not an assassin. _I assume that helped her along the way._ He cursed himself for such a harsh thought and stepped away, leaving her to her own devices.

Sakhra could feel his stare and hastily covered her face again, though the snow-covered veil was shockingly cold. The discomfort was worth it, if it kept the elf from looking at her like that. Here in the swirling snow, his sky blue eyes were hard to ignore.

The others emerged swiftly, digging themselves out of the snow. Somehow Gimli managed to poke through, though he should've been buried twice over. He looked like an old man with a white beard, but growled like a bear.

"Frodo!" Sakhra heard herself shout, more concerned for the hobbit than anyone else.

The little one waved from under Aragorn's arm, "I'm here, Sakhra," he said weakly, though the wind seemed to steal his voice away.

Sam didn't speak at all, more concerned with trying to warm his frozen fingers, and Merry and Pippin clutched at Boromir like children to their father. Their cheeks were red with cold and she knew, if they had been weaker, tears would be frozen in their eyes. Though the cold bit at her harshly, she felt the urge to tear her cloak away and give it to them. _Their poor feet._

Boromir noted her concern and met her gaze. A brief understanding passed between them, though neither wished to acknowledge it.

"This will be the death of the hobbits!" he shouted, calling after Gandalf. The wizard clutched at his hat, to save it and to give him a reason to avoid looking at his frozen company. "We cannot stay here!"

_But where can we go?_ Sakhra knew they could not continue this road, not with Saruman ready to throw the fury of the mountain down on them. One glance from Gandalf and she knew he was thinking the same thing.

Boromir answered for them both. "Make for the Gap of Rohan, and take the west road to my city!"

Sakhra wished that road were open to them. She wished it with all her heart.

"The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" Aragorn countered, echoing the old argument. But here in the wind, with the snows falling all around, they could not argue long. Despite the man's protection, Frodo pulled his hood closer to his face, trying to block out the cold.

"We are too close to Isengard already," Sakhra said to the wind, feeling the cold grip of despair steal over her. Though Legolas heard her words, the only member of the Fellowship who could in such a storm, he didn't reply.

When Gimli spoke up, he didn't even have the heart to roll his eyes. "If we cannot pass over the mountain, let us go under it!" he rumbled, banging his axe against the rock. It clanged like a bell. "Let us go through the Mines of Moria!"

Legolas noted the worried stare that passed between Gandalf and Sakhra, though it was fleeting. Both feared the mines and the elf had to admit, he did as well. The dark caverns of the dwarves, whether full of gems or goblins, held no love for elves. _And the depths of the world hold no love for anything._

_Moria_. Sakhra tried to imagine the famed dwarf kingdom, but found she could not. Abandoned, lost, reclaimed – and darker than the desert night. _If half the tales are true, that place will be our ruin. _

_Tell them no, Gandalf,_ she wanted to scream, but the cold had taken her resolve. And even if she protested, she had no other suggestions. There were no other passes, not beyond the reach of Saruman. _Is there no other way?_

"Let the Ringbearer decide," she heard Gandalf say, and his voice might have trembled. The wizard did not want the burden of this choice, giving it over to the hobbit. "Frodo?"

To Sakhra, the hobbit's words felt like a cruel, cold blade.

"We will go through the mines."

* * *

The storm relented behind them, fainting with the gleaming snows of Caradhas as they made their way down the mountain. That night there were no songs, though Gimli regaled them all with tales of the dwarf kingdom ruled by his cousin. Sakhra wanted to hope, to believe that Moria would be an easy passage, but hope had betrayed her many times before. Gandalf was also quiet in thought, his eyes reflecting their small campfire like jewels, and she could hear him muttering around his pipe, though the language was strange.

"I think I'm going to lose some toes," Pippin grumbled as he waggled his feet at the fire. Somehow, they were still pink and fleshy and full of blood, not frostbite. "There won't be any snow in Mordor, will there?"

Sakhra snorted into her lean dinner. By now she was used to Pippin's foolish questions, but they never ceased to amuse her. "What part of Mountain of Fire didn't you understand?"

The hobbit flushed red as the fire, mumbling a little as Merry sniggered. "I was just wondering."

"You'll be wishing there was snow, believe me," she added, trying to take some of the weight off Pippin. Instead, she only put more on herself. The Fellowship turned their eyes on her, once again wondering about their Haradrim companion.

Aragorn looked especially interested, having only scouted the borders of Mordor himself. The land beyond the mountains was strange to him, and strangeness bred fear. Fear he could not afford. "How did you pass through the Black Land?" he said plainly, making sure to keep his tone neutral. Surely Sakhra's time in Mordor was not in service to the West, but it was a tale worth telling all the same.

_Veil or not, you must learn to keep your mouth shut, Sakhra._ Her time in Mordor was not one she wished to relive, but as Gandalf did before, she knew whatever she could tell Frodo now would serve him later.

"The last time was for a contract, my last contract," she added hastily, remembering every detail. _Riding out from Umbar, through Ithilien and Minas Morgul, into a foul and putrid land that stank of death. _"A visiting Variag chieftan of Khand had offended the Eye's great emissary, one called the Mouth of Sauron."

Legolas didn't miss the way she shivered, thinking back to that agent of Mordor. Again, he wanted to give her his cloak, but he knew she wasn't shaking from the cold.

"I was to kill him in such a way that would send a message. To cross the Mouth was die. But my blade did more than kill – it divided." She heaved a sigh, drawing out a dagger from her belt. The wicked blade, curved like a crescent moon, was an ancient weapon of the Hasharin. Its cuts were easily identified. "A Variag chieftain dead by a Haradrim's hand meant the two nations would never unite."

"A cunning tactic," Aragorn said, understanding what she meant. "Sauron divided all beneath him, so they were never strong enough to revolt."

"Correct." With a snap, the dagger slid back into its sheath. "I was a guest of Mouth, after a fashion, and I passed through Mordor freely. They opened the gates to let me in, and to let me out." She had to scoff at that. "I doubt they will do the same again."

Though Boromir had been trying his best to hold his tongue, he couldn't hold back the words any longer. "So you've never actually stolen into Mordor? You were _invited_?"

Sakhra did not want to make a habit of explaining herself, to Boromir of all people, but she kept calm. "The last time, yes. But there were other journeys, contracts not given by the Mouth, where I was forced to," she bit her lip, searching for the word. "_Improvise._" It was hard to forget the cliffs, the tunnels, the _webs._ "There are many paths through the Mountains of Shadow, all foul and fearsome, but I passed through. So will we."

Her words were resolute and hard, not with pride, but conviction. It was hard not to believe her when she spoke so, with her eyes alight with fire. Even Boromir felt something like awe, if only for a second.

"You must be very skilled to have done so," he heard himself admit, and Sakhra nearly fell over in shock. She could only nod, smiling brightly behind her veil. The steps between them were small, nowhere near friendship, but respect was growing there.

To her delight, Gimli reclaimed the conversation, steering back to his tales of Moria, then Erebor, the Blue Mountains and all the dwarf strongholds still standing in this age. As he spoke, his deep voice a rumble against the stars and the fire, Sakhra quietly pulled her veil away. The firelight danced on her face and her lips twitched, wanting to smile a little, but she did not. As comforting as this night was, Moria was coming it, and with it the black stretches of the unknown.

The others noticed her pull away the veil, but said nothing. It cheered Gimli to see her so and he continued speaking with great zeal, while the hobbits seemed transfixed by her appearance. Merry himself whispered to Pippin that he would marry Sakhra before all was done, while Sam blushed and looked away. Frodo was not so skittish and smiled warmly, forgetting for a few minutes the Ring around his neck. For their part, Aragorn and Gandalf exchanged a glance, noting the shift in Sakhra. They both knew that her acceptance into the Fellowship, while difficult, must come from both sides. She had to accept _them_ as well. And maybe she was beginning to.

Again, Legolas looked on her face and found her beautiful, but this time, her features could not hold his gaze. Instead his eyes trailed to the dagger and the black tattoos and her own ring, the marks of the Hasharin. They made something in him pause. Though she swore that life was gone, Legolas was an elf and had seen the many betrayals of men through his long years. He had also seen their many glories; _which one will she be?_

Truthfully, he did not know. But he could always hope.

* * *

**Next up, Moria, and Sakhra finally gets to use her sword. **


	6. Markatars

**Thanks for the love guys, really, you're all the best! The hardest part of all this is getting all ten Walkers their moments, so it's good to know this feels canon to some of you. P.S. Gimli/Legolas banter is quickly becoming my favorite thing to write. They're just so sassy. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**V - Markatars**

* * *

In her years with the Hasharin and her years after leaving, Sakhra had walked or ridden many roads of Middle-Earth, but this path was unknown to her. Never had she needed to enter Moria, and never had she wanted to. The histories of that place, taught to her so long ago at the guild in Umbar, were enough to keep her away from the gates. _Markatars_, the instructors called it. _Lost darkness. _Just the thought of entering made her blood run cold, despite all Gimli's assurances. Something, some instinct, would not let her believe the dwarf's promises.

Snow changed to mist off the slopes of Caradhas, bathing the world in a gray sheen. She could barely see Gandalf, who seemed to blend into the world like he was fading away. It put fear in her, one she didn't understand.

"We can still turn back to the High Pass," she mumbled, drawing close to the old wizard. "I do not favor this road."

Gandalf heaved a breath, reluctant to speak. She could tell he agreed, that the wizard feared Moria. And anything that frightened Gandalf was enough to send her screaming in the other direction.

"Aragorn dislikes it as well," she added, dropping her voice even lower so that the dwarf would not hear. But Gimli was busy entertaining the hobbits with tales of feasts and gems, and even Boromir seemed heartened by the prospect. "The High Pass is beyond Saruman's reach."

"So is Moria," the wizard finally said.

"There are other things to fear in the mines. Goblins, orcs, drunk dwarves-."

Gandalf chuckled heartily, and put a hand on her shoulder. Despite his age, she could feel the strength there, hidden behind the mask of an old man. "Hard as it is for you to admit, _Terazon_," he said with the tiniest smirk, using her new name, "I am quite skilled at achieving my goals. Even if, at first, the methods cannot be understood. Moria is part of our path now, dark as it may be. Just like the Hasharin were part of yours."

His grip tightened on her, sending a tiny shock of warmth through her still cold bones. It heartened her, chasing away her fear. She exhaled a little, hoping the terror would disappear with her breath. Most of it did, but the little that remained, the tiny tremor, feared for Gandalf the Gray.

"Gandalf-."

"A necessary darkness on the path to light," he said, and the words were final. With surprising speed, the old wizard stepped away from her, leaving the Haradrim girl to stew in her thoughts. "Frodo, come and help an old man," she heard over the distant sound of a waterfall. It took only seconds, but Gandalf was gone from her side.

_Necessary darkness. The Hasharin were certainly dark, but necessary?_ She thought on them for a good while, remembering long years of brutal training in everything from swordsmanship to history studies. Beyond that, she remembered where she would be without the guild, where her life would have led. The auction block. A harem tent. And the headsman's axe when she inevitably tried to run away. _And certainly I would not be here today, a guide to the Ring, part of the weapon that will tear down the Tower and kill the Eye. __A necessary darkness indeed._ She felt like a sword, born in fire and trial, beaten early to do greater deeds later.

But in spite of Gandalf's words, her hands still trembled as the sheer cliff rose above. _The Doors of Durin_. A black and narrow lake was all that lay between the Fellowship and Moria now, and mist swirled on a surface still as glass.

"The Walls of Moria!" Gimli gasped, looking upon the rock face like a pilgrim would a god. He hastened them along, his little legs outstripping them all in his haste to meet with his kin. Night had fallen by the time they reached the far side and clouds rolled in, blotting out the moon. Again, Gandalf seemed to fade into the darkness all around.

As they approached, careful around the water's edge, Sakhra's hand strayed to her arm. She counted the tattooed bands, remembering their meaning, and it calmed her a little. Legolas noted the gesture, how it seemed to relax her features. He wished for something like that, a symbol or talisman to ease his fears. Then he remembered the bow at his back, hard and firm and lethal in his expert hands. _That will do._

Gimli reached the cliff face first, his smile bright beneath his beard. He tapped against the rock with his axe, listening for an echo that would never sound. "Dwarf doors are invisible when closed," he said proudly.

The wizard came up beside him, running a hand along the Doors, searching for anything that might open them. "Indeed, their own masters cannot find them, if their secrets are forgotten."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Legolas scoffed, more concerned with his bow than the wretched Doors. It was in perfect order, as usual, but gave him an excuse not to bother with thoughts of Moria.

"Be sure to let me know the next time you carve a kingdom out of a mountain, Master Elf!" Gimli shouted back, his axe in hand. The words were harsh but his eyes were not, having steadily lost their disdain for the elf.

Sakhra smirked, amused by the gentle ribbing, but forgot all could see her face now.

"Stop that right now, Sakhra Shakastar!" he said, pointing his axe at her. "I'll not abide the smirks of you both!"

_Shastaskar_, Legolas thought with an amused grin. _Her name is Shastaskar._ And she was smirking terribly, a crooked little thing that could infuriate Sauron himself.

"I think I'll go back to wearing a veil," Sakhra muttered, crossing her arms in an attempt to look cross, but Gimli dismissed her with a wave of the hand. "And if you're going to get my name wrong, I'd rather you call me something other than Drunken Dagger."

"Wait until we're feasting deep in Khazad-Dum – we'll all be drunken daggers then, eh?" the dwarf chortled and banged his axe against the rock again. "Then we'll see how fair the elf can be, with a belly full of meat and mead!"

Legolas looked almost sickened by the thought, but Merry and Pippin were certainly not. They looked up from their packs, mouths full with their usual snacks. "Dinner, supper," Pippin almost moaned, his thoughts dancing with food and ale.

But their merriment was brought to an abrupt end, as Gandalf stepped back from a section of the cliff. He raised a hand to the sky and the clouds rolled away, revealing the moon. Impressive as the action was, it was not his grand trick, not by far.

"Ithildin," he murmured, as glowing white lines appeared in the rock. The metal glinted fiercely, outlining the famed Doors of Durin. Mirroring only starlight and moonlight, it was invisible before, but now stood out bright as day. There was even an inscription over the flowing curves, written in Elvish of all things. "It reads, 'The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak friend and enter.' Simply, if you are a friend, you speak the password and the doors will open."

Sakhra found herself holding her breath, not wanting the Doors to open, but also not wanting to stay here in this gloomy valley any longer. So when Gandalf spoke a command aloud, his staff against the rock, she bit her lip. _Nothing._ The Doors didn't budge. Another command. _Nothing._ Another. Another. Another. _Nothing. Nothing. Nothing._

She was not a stranger to Gandalf's eccentric ways or his sporadic memory, but this still grated on her nerves, as well as everyone else's. Gandalf was most irritated of all and even snapped at Pippin, though the pestering hobbit may have deserved it. He continued muttered and pushing and clapping his hands together, but nothing seemed to work. The Doors would not open.

It was no surprise when Gimli sat down, plopping himself on a rock to patiently await the mines of Moria. Merry and Pippin quickly followed, fiddling at the edge of the lake, while Sam made himself useful and unloaded Bill the pony with Aragorn. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed them send the pony off, letting him wander away into darkness. It all felt terribly final.

"So this is the path we have chosen," she murmured to herself.

"We were forced this way," the elven prince replied, coming to stand beside her. "By fate and circumstance. And Gimli's incessant grumblings."

"If Boromir and I can put aside our differences for the good of the quest, surely you can go a bit easier on Gimli?" Indeed, she and the Gondorian had not bickered since Caradhas, and his usual glares had ceased all together. Though, to her dismay, it seems he was redirecting them at Aragorn. Thankfully, the man had a calmer temper than she and kept quiet.

"Should Moria be all he says it is, I will not quarrel with him again."

She wanted to smile, but his words gave her no comfort at all. "You fear the mines as well."

"I did not say that," he returned sharply. Weakness was not something he liked to display, not in front of anyone, particularly the Hasharina.

"Elves don't make promises they can't keep. You know the mines are a dark path."

Legolas pursed his lips into a line and hesitated, before nodding slowly. His sharp ears dimly registered the slosh of water somewhere, but he ignored it. "Sharp shadows wait for us beyond the Doors. Nothing good will come of this way."

"Then _say_ something! Tell Gandalf-."

"You fear it too, _you_ told him so, and still we continued on to this necessary darkness. My words will not sway him if yours can't."

Sakhra wanted to argue, to tell him that he was an _elf_, a being with skills far greater and better regarded than hers, but the words died away. _Necessary darkness. _"You were listening to our conversation?"

His eyes flashed to hers and the lightest blush, barely visible in the moonlight, colored his pale cheeks. "I hear most things said in this Fellowship, whether I wish to or not."

"Did you _wish _to hear a private conversation?" she snapped, feeling anger flare within her. Legolas did not miss the sparks behind her eyes and took a tiny step back. Human or not, the Hasharina looked downright dangerous.

"I meant no disrespect." Another slosh of water, Aragorn's voice. And Boromir, watching the elf and the woman argue but again, Legolas pushed it all away. "I apologize."

Sakhra hated apologies. She hated giving them and she hated getting them. It made it that much harder to hold onto her anger, the only thing in the world she could rely on. _The nosy, eavesdropping elf!_ her mind shouted._ With his stupid snow-walking, never cold, never tired, never needing to rest. _Her eyes widened and anger melted into fear. _Rest._

"You heard the names," she murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper.

_The names. _Legolas heard them all, whispered in the night. Sometimes he even stayed awake to hear her say them. It didn't take a genius to know what they were, or why they plagued her. _She remembers the dead. She remembers the blood._ And one name echoed above all the others. She repeated it sometimes, over and over again, until her eyes would snap open to wake her from some terrible dream. _Farzane._ That name was her own personal ghost.

The elf did not want to lie, but he did not want to speak either. She didn't need his voice to hear what his body was saying as he shifted, uncomfortable under her gaze. _He heard the names whispered in the night. He knows they haunt me. He knows my heart is corrupted, by blood and memory. _

Before she could _beg_ him to keep quiet or attack him for eavesdropping or both, the grinding sound of stone on stone drew her eye. Frodo stood before the open Doors, a triumphant look on his face. Clapping loudly, Gimli sprang to his feet with the enthusiasm of a child and took her by the arm. He dragged her away from Legolas, away from the blue eyes that knew her nightmares.

"Soon Mr. Elf," Gimli called over his shoulder, beckoning him to follow them into the darkness. "You will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves!"

But the air inside the Doors was cold, stale and smelled faintly of sweet decay. She resisted the urge to raise her veil, even if it meant blocking out the stench. But Gimli didn't seem to notice, pulling her deeper in.

"Roaring fires!" It was dark as night, with not even torches to light the chamber beyond the Doors.

"Malt beer!" As she drew breath, Sakhra could taste death on the air and it made her head spin.

"Ripe meat off the bone!" Something snapped beneath her feet, cracking like dried wood.

She jumped back, almost colliding with Legolas, but the elf deftly held out his hands to stop her. One glance between them was all it took to know they shared a thought. _This is wrong._ The others felt it too, their shadows tense and ready. When Gandalf raised his staff, illuminating the chamber, it took only half a heartbeat for her to draw her sword.

Corpses and bones littered the floor, all of them peppered with hundreds of black arrows. All dwarves, all dead, all rotten.

"This is no mine!" Boromir said, his sword in hand. "It's a tomb!" He threw out his free hand, meaning to push back Merry and Pippin, who eagerly stepped away. Frodo and Sam went with them, backing away to the Doors with shocked expressions.

But while they retreated, Gimli rushed forward with a roar like a battle cry. It quickly faded into a yell of torment as he examined the nearest dwarf corpse. "Nooo!" he wept, and the sound made Sakhra want to scream.

She tightened her grip on her sword, watching the shadows for any sign of threat. With Aragorn and Boromir at her back, she felt no fear. And the moonlight still streamed in, beckoning from the world outside.

"Goblins!" Legolas snapped in distaste, throwing away one of the black arrows like it had burned him. He notched an arrow to his bow with blinding speed, falling into step with the other warriors.

Boromir's voice echoed off the walls, rumbling through the stone. "We make for the Gap of Rohan. We should never have come here!"

Nodding wholeheartedly, Sakhra bent to grab Gimli by his mail, pulling him away from the body. He still roared, protesting, but allowed her to hoist him to his feet. They turned together and the open door ahead looked so inviting, so beautiful.

Until Frodo fell to the ground, a slick, muscled _thing _around his ankle, dragging him out into a world that was just as cruel and dangerous as the one they stood in.

The hobbit screamed, his hands scrabbling on the stone as he tried to grab at anything, but the watery beast was too strong for him. It dragged him to the lakeshore, meaning to take him under, but Merry, Pippin and Sam were there first, their tiny swords ready. Sam jabbed, cutting Frodo free for a brief moment, until a score of tentacles exploded from the water. The tentacles tossed the hobbits back and grabbed at Frodo again, pulling him right off the ground to dangle precariously over black and foaming water.

An arrow sang past Sakhra's ear, hitting home in the tentacle's gray flesh, but it did not let go. She didn't bother to wait for the second arrow, and charged into the water with Boromir and Aragorn. Her blade danced, spinning in curving arcs as she cut through the forest of limbs, all thick as a man and slick with water and something more nefarious. They chopped like axmen, but the tentacles kept coming, forcing them to dodge and weave in the water. She found her rhythm quickly, like a performer remembering a dance. _Step, swing, step, swing, step, swing._ Always moving closer to Frodo as he was passed from tentacle to tentacle, still high out of their reach. She could hear the hobbits yelling on the shore, but adrenaline drowned them out. Her training had taught her intense focus, to perceive only what she needed, and the skill served her well. More arrows passed with blinding speed, so close she felt them ripple the air, but she never faltered.

On the shore, Legolas found his own dance, falling into the lethal art of archery. He was a prince and the bow was his kingdom. The creature, the Watcher in the Water, made the lake splash and foam like a pot on the boil, but his eyes stayed sharp. Soon the tentacles looked like pincushions, bristling with his arrows. They were not enough to loosen its grip on Frodo, so he turned his gaze on his friends in the water, all hacking and chopping with little regard for themselves. Every time a tentacle emerged, lashing out at Aragorn or Boromir or Sakhra, he let an arrow fly, saving them from Frodo's fate. He paused only for a moment, to watch Sakhra spin her heavy sword like a wheel, using its own blinding momentum to slice through skin and muscle. _That sword could cut through bone_.

But her sword and Aragorn's and Boromir's didn't seem to be enough as the creature dragged Frodo farther away, towards the whirl of water spinning in the depths of the lake. When a monstrous head emerged, its jaws wide, Legolas didn't hesitate and put an arrow in its eye. In that same moment, Aragorn sliced through the tentacle holding Frodo and the hobbit fell through the air. Boromir was there to catch him and Sakhra covered their escape, her blade dancing again. She slipped as they ran from the water, her boots sliding over the lakebed, and for a second Legolas felt time slow. The creature was still coming, a rage of tentacles and water, pulling itself out of the lake towards the Fellowship.

He felt his legs moving, his bow singing, as he put another arrow in its head. The creature moaned and slowed for a moment, but that moment was enough for Sakhra to right herself. She scrambled after the others, sprinting for the Doors with tentacles on her heels. Legolas shot as many as he could, watching with wide eyes to make sure she was clear of the foul thing.

"Run!" she shouted, watching him notch another arrow. _The fool means to guard my escape. _A slick tentacle brushed her cheek but she sliced it away with a deft spin of her sword. "_Legolas, _run!"

Her hand closed on the leather strap of his quiver, pulling him along with her as she sprinted into the strange safety of Moria. Legolas nearly yelped, so taken off guard by her action. Under other circumstances, he would have been offended at being dragged around like a dog, but the watery demon was still roaring and still advancing.

The elf managed to fire one last arrow before the Doors of Durin closed behind them, shattered by the strength of the Watcher. It plunged them all into bone-chilling darkness, with nothing but the sound of their own breathing and the steady drip-drip of water. Legolas could still feel the warmth of Sakhra's hand, even through his tunic, but she quickly drew away. Despite the darkness, his elf eyes could see her plainly and what he saw surprised him.

She sheathed the sword quietly, second-nature to her, and though the hobbits were shaking and scared, she didn't tremble. _What did you expect from the Hasharina? Tears? _he chided himself. She was an assassin, a warrior, but she didn't react like Aragorn or Boromir or Gimli either. All three converged on the hobbits, counting them in the darkness, but Sakhra did not. Instead she bowed her head, lips moving without sound, fingers drawing a crescent on her brow – she was _praying_. And when she raised her head, eyes wide, Legolas felt like she could see him staring, even in the darkness.

"We now have but one choice," Gandalf's voice rang out, echoing off the rubble. He knocked his staff against the ground and light exploded from it like a star. "We must face the long dark of Moria."

All, even Gimli, heaved a grim sigh. Sakhra wanted to turn around, to tear at the rubble and dig herself out of this bleak hole, but she knew that was impossible. This was a necessary darkness, a lost darkness. _Markatars_.

_Necessary darkness._ It weighed on Sakhra like a stone, like the tattoos she wished she could remove, like the names she wished she could forget.

_Like the Ring_.

* * *

**Sorry this chapter was kind of short on Aragorn and Boromir, but I have plans for them coming up! **


	7. One Of Many Masks

**Sorry for the long wait, I've got some kind of crazy stuff going on right now. I've kind of written a novel and it's kind of being looked at by a lit agency so, depending on how my meeting goes, this might be put on the back burner for a little a while. But Sakhra's kind of a worm in my head now and I don't think I'll be able to get rid of her that easily. **

**Thanks for all your love and support, you guys rule!**

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**VII - One Of Many Masks**

* * *

_A four day journey to the other side_, Gandalf had said. _Four days in the dark._ Even in the desert, even in _Mordor_, there was the light of the stars or the fire of orc camps, but no such thing penetrated here. Only Gandalf's staff illuminated the way, and it was weak, casting monstrous shadows across the stone. The ruins of the dwarf kingdom twisted all around, a testament to the deep evil that rested here. Sakhra could feel it on her skin, in every breath, always waiting on the edge of Gandalf's light. She kept a hand on her sword, never lessening her grip on the ebony hilt. The other rested in her leather jacket, closed around her Hasharin dagger.

She was tense as they moved through Moria, even as the hours passed with nothing more than shadows to follow them. Legolas wondered how a human could stay so vigilant, never relaxing for a moment. His own senses hummed a warning at every corner, but he was an elf. He was made to watch and to wait. So when Boromir slowed his pace, dropping back to accompany Sakhra, he felt himself tense. A shouting match was the last thing they needed here, but the shouts never came.

"You favored my plan, didn't you?" The Gondorian's voice was low, barely a whisper, but Legolas could still hear him.

Sakhra glanced at him, surprised by his quiet, almost gentle tone. "I would favor anything next to this," she said, gesturing at the black mines. "And the western road would save us many troubles. The Rohirrim would aid us, and your people would as well."

He nodded, heartened by her words. "Indeed. My father would welcome us with open arms and many feasts."

"Careful, you're starting to sound like the dwarf." To her delight, Boromir smiled at the jibe and nodded.

"We are both simply proud of our people."

She felt blood flush in her cheeks, though the air was damp and cold. "You have every right to be. The Men of Gondor fight bravely, and against many dangers." _I used to be one of them._ She knew Boromir was thinking it too, and fighting against the urge to say so. "My people are a brutal kind, Boromir. No one knows that better than I."

_Their spears are sharp, their armor thick. And the mumakil are warring mountains._

"And you left them." His voice echoed further than she wished, and a few heads turned, but no one spoke a word. In that moment, she wished she could disappear into the dark. "You left the assassins and your people."

"_Onsatara_," she murmured to the shadows, remembering her most vile name. "I betrayed them. I betrayed the blood." And even though her actions were good and righteous, she still found it in herself to be ashamed of them. _I betrayed the only ones who ever loved me. The ones who saved me from the slaver's tent. The ones who gave me purpose. I betrayed them all. _

Somehow, Boromir of Gondor felt pity for the Haradrim woman as he watched shadows and sorrow dance across her face. The feeling swelled deep within, in a place long forgotten since the Ring came to his thoughts. "You cannot betray what is already wrong," he said, tentatively putting a hand on her shoulder. Her muscles were tense beneath his touch, and hard as bone. "You chose a better path. And when we reach Gondor, my city will open its gates and you will pass through freely." He knew the laws of his land. He knew her kind was forbidden. And when he returned to Minas Tirith, he intended to change that. "The city will sing at our coming and even Sauron will tremble. For we have the Ring, and we can defeat him."

Sakhra put a hand over Boromir's and marveled at the strength she felt there. But she remembered his face on the mountain, and the hunger in his eyes. _Would he be strong enough to resist?_

She certainly hoped so. "Thank you, Boromir."

Though neither would admit it, Boromir, son of the steward, and Sakhra, the Hasharina, became friends deep in Moria. Somehow, they brought light to that darkness, lifting the last veil of unease from the shoulders of the Fellowship.

But Sakhra never eased the grip on her sword or her dagger. For her, the shadows were too close to forget. Still, the passage seemed safe, broken only by slipping hobbits. Everyone kept an eye on Pippin, who proved very adept at falling, particularly near high ledges.

"The Haradrim leash their children during sandstorms," Sakhra chuckled when Pippin fell again, this time far from the cliff edge. She hoisted him up by the collar, righting him on his feet. "Perhaps we should adopt the practice?"

Pippin scowled and stuck his tongue out at her, which she only laughed at. Aragorn chuckled as well, his deep laugh rumbling in the darkness.

"At least we outnumber the hobbits now," he said, "Try taking all four of them from Bree to Rivendell alone."

"Not alone, Strider," Sam reminded, thinking back to the attack at Weathertop and the elf woman who saved Frodo. "There was that elf maiden who helped you."

Frodo nodded along, though he barely remembered the ride of his life. "She evaded the Ringwraiths, all nine of them."

Sakhra did not miss Aragorn's forced shrug or the way his eyes darkened. "She did, indeed." _Elf maiden_, she thought, remembering what she saw on the bridge. _Kiramir_. And then, through the folds of Aragorn's collar, Sakhra noticed something winking like a star: a white gemstone, a necklace. _A woman's jewel._

"She must be quite the warrior, to have faced the Nine riders alone," Sakhra murmured, enjoying the uncomfortable way Aragorn squirmed. As much as he tried to hide it, she could see the layers of his hard exterior peeling away to show what lay beneath. Not the ranger, not the heir, but the man. Flesh and blood and a beating, loving heart. _We are all men beneath our armor_, she knew, and to see it in Aragorn, in one so grave and skilled, gave her a strange kind of hope. And, if nothing else, teasing him gave her a reason to smile in this darkness. "Would that she had come with us."

Aragorn hoisted his quiver higher on his shoulder, if only to avoid the clenching feeling in his chest. Just the thought of Arwen accompanying the quest made his blood chill, though it ran hot again when he saw Sakhra smirking in the shadows. Legolas saw it too and wanted to laugh aloud, but did not, for his friend's sake.

"Are you missing female company, my lady?" Gimli chortled, throwing a look over his shoulder.

"Not at all, Master Dwarf," she said, "Just the smell."

The rowdy jeers of menfolk echoed off the stone, and even Gandalf admonished her for her 'impertinent cheek', as he called it.

* * *

They came to a split in the path, with three arches each leading away into a different darkness. Sakhra barely noticed, more focused on searching for Orcs, and bumped into Aragorn's back when he stopped walking. She opened her mouth to ask why they were standing still, but Gandalf answered for her.

"I have no memory of this place," he said gravely, his eyes searching the arches like they held some kind of answer. But an answer never came.

Though she wanted nothing more than to stand, to watch the path ahead and behind, Sakhra's legs finally began to protest her constant vigilance. Long hours in the dark, walking over hard and jagged stone, had taken their toll. When she settled down on an outcropping of rock, she had to clench her teeth to trap in a sigh of relief. The hobbits were not so veiled and smiled at the prospect of rest, as did Gimli. It wasn't long before were sifting through Sam's food stores, pulling out pieces of bread and jerky to share.

Aragorn simply drew out his pipe, content to sit and smoke with Boromir at his side. There was a heavy silence between them, the kind that settles when words want to be said, and it made Sakhra uneasy. Boromir was the son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, a man who was king in all but name. Now he sat next to the man who would be king, a man he had insulted and distrusted not so long ago in Rivendell. _His opinion of you has changed, surely he thinks differently of Aragorn as well?_ She wanted to believe that, if only to calm her already pounding heart. _This place does not agree with you, Onsatara._

The elf was no comfort either, constantly standing, still as a statue, his sharp eyes fixed on the craggy fissures all around. She wondered if anything ever snuck up on him, and wanted to be there when something did.

When his gaze moved, shifting from the shadows to her own face, she nearly jumped in her skin. Only her Hasharin training kept her from reacting, though no lesson ever taught her how to stop her face from flushing.

_She is strange_, Legolas thought, watching as she dropped her eyes. Her movements were quick but fluid as she busied herself, laying her sword across her knees. He remembered the blade cutting through the Watcher with smooth, dancing motions like he'd never seen before. In truth, her fighting style seemed more Elvish than anything, especially in comparison to the strong, hard, hacking Boromir or Aragorn's flawless swordplay. Though he knew a few words and some of their histories, the Haradrim were a great mystery to Legolas. Only tales of the Hasharin, the ancient guild of assassins, ever held his attention as a young elf. And now he walked with one of them, sharing camp and fire with such strange myth. He had so many questions for her, but now was not the place for them.

The familiar smell of pipeweed told Sakhra that Gandalf had settled in, ready for long hours of muttering and thinking. She wanted to poke at the old wizard, perhaps prodding him into one of his more wizardly fits. If it meant moving on, she would gladly accept his rage, but this was not a place for such things. Now they must sit in quiet, longing for the sun and the wind and the dream of the world above.

_Well, now that I have some time_, she thought to herself, and let her hands stray to her hair.

Legolas couldn't help but feel surprised when she pushed back her hood for the first time in many days. _Since Rivendell_, he told himself, remembering her at the council. Like her veil, the hood was another comfort for her to hide in, and somehow she felt safe enough in Moria, with them, to shed it. But that was not her purpose at all, he realized, when she began undoing the long braids of her hair. In the dim light, her hair seemed black as a void, and not so long as a woman's should be. But that was to be expected. _She is an assassin, not a lady._ Still, as the braids fell into waved, gleaming rivers, Legolas could not ignore the fact that she was indeed a woman.

Her lips curled into a smile as the braids fell apart, unwinding between her fingers. She had gone so long with the braids, she'd nearly forgotten what it felt like to let them down. The relief almost made her moan, but she bit back the sound. Though she now counted herself a member of the Fellowship, a friend even, she was not _that _comfortable.

Though Legolas tried his best to look away, he found his eyes always flitting back to her, watching as she bent and angled herself. She was so graceful, but not in the elvish way, and it confused him. _Intrigued _him. Every movement was fluid but hard, light but full of purpose. It didn't take much effort to imagine how her hands, now untangling hair, could just as easily slit throats. Her face was a different story though. Now, with her hair down, her hood pushed back and the veil pulled away, she seemed smaller, younger somehow, even innocent. _Not, not innocent_, he realized. _But unbound. Unfettered. Free._ In this place, in this moment, she seemed to shed the weight of her memories and her ghosts.

But it was not to last. When Sakhra began rebraiding her hair, he almost reached out a hand to stop her. _Almost. _But he didn't miss her smile fade away, replaced by the neutral expression she fell so easily into. _It is not her only mask, but one of many._

Sakhra did not understand Legolas's fascination with her hair, but she didn't want to question it either. Not in front of the hobbits, at least. Merry and Pippin would joke forever, Frodo would tease her if given the chance and Sam would follow Frodo's example. _A burden_, she once thought of them. Between their falling and laughing and constant eating, it was indeed true. _But they are a burden I will gladly bear._

This time, she made sure the braids weren't so tight, if only to give her scalp some respite. If this had been Harad, she would braid gold wire and ribbon and mumak bone into her hair, but this was Moria and not the time for such things. All the better. Sakhra never liked the bonewear. It was too barbaric, even for an assassin.

"It's that way!" Gandalf finally said, pulling out of a whispered conversation with Frodo. He drew himself off his perch and pointed with his staff down one of the arches. The others jumped to their feet as well, Sakhra quickest of all. She could still feel Legolas's eyes, and it was not a sensation she liked.

As they fell into line again, trooping after Gandalf and down a flight of stone stairs, Sakhra's hand returned to her sword. The entire mountain loomed over them, threatening to come crashing down. Only the hobbits, still wide-eyed and curious despite the darkness, gave her any hope. _Now I understand why Gandalf brought them along._

Frodo in particular looked strangely cheerful, heartened by his conversation with Gandalf back at the crossroads. The slight smile on his face seemed to light the shadows, despite the chain around his neck and the evil it carried. Somehow, it had not taken him.

_But it will_, the voice in her head warned, hissing in Haradaic. _It will take you all. _She bit down on her lip sharply, using the pain to drive the voice away.

"The air is lighter here," she said aloud, hoping for some conversation to distract her harried mind. "Have we found a shortcut?"

Aragorn answered from the back of the line, his preferred place in the company. "The great halls of the dwarves are not far off," he said, remembering his own travels through Moria.

"Grand as the hall of any king, and big enough to house any palace," Gimli boasted, puffing out his chest against his armor. He ran a mailed fist against the wall, along the geometric carvings that seemed to multiply as they continued forward.

Sakhra couldn't help it; the words simply slipped out. "I don't know Gimli, Rivendell seemed quite large."

In the dark of Moria, it was hard to hide any noise at all, and the stifled laughter of the Fellowship echoed loudly off the stone.

Gimli sputtered, turning over his shoulder to face Sakhra. His feet continued moving, forcing him to walk backwards. At any moment, he looked close to stumbling, but continued on with determination. "Rivendell!" he spat, "A pittance in comparison!"

"And what of the Tower of Ecthelion? It is a massive thing, guarding over my city for thousands of years," Boromir said, joining in on the game. "Legend says the tower touches the sky."

The dwarf barely paused before waving off Boromir's words. "Your tower would tremble in the face of Khazad-dum."

"The halls of my father would not," Legolas chimed in, enjoying the way it made Sakhra smile and Gimli flush. "Our trees are tall and our chambers deep."

"I'll not justify that with an answer, princeling," Gimli said, realizing that he was being baited. "See for yourself when we come to the halls."

Smiling, Sakhra put an arm around Gimli's armored shoulders. "We were only teasing, Gimli," she said. The dwarf tried his best to look angry, but found he couldn't in the face of Sakhra's rare smile.

The walls around them seemed to open, as the passageway led out to a great chamber. In the darkness, Sakhra could not be sure of its size, but it had the air and smell of something massive. She could just see a few columns in the gloom, each one bigger than the great trees of Lothlorien or the Harad jungle, all fading up into black air.

At the head of the company, Gandalf smirked and raised his staff. "Let me risk a little more light."

His staff gleamed out with surprising strength, illuminating the immense cavern almost too big to comprehend. The massive columns marched out in every direction, supporting a stone roof high above. In spite of herself, Sakhra felt her jaw drop at the sight.

"Who's teasing now?" Gimli chuckled, elbowing her in the ribs, but she barely heard him at all.

"There's an eye opener and no mistake," Sam murmured, voicing the awe the rest of them felt.

"Behold the great realm and dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf," Gandalf said, his voice echoing off the stone and into the deep darkness all around.

Sakhra could not believe her eyes, but tried her best to mask her wonder. This was a great city, yes, but a ruined one, full of shadow and danger. She needed to be on her guard, no matter how grand or how beautiful her surroundings might be. Legolas felt the same and kept his hands free, ready to draw his bow if he needed to. His eyes saw farther than any other, but still he couldn't see the far end of the hall, and it made him wary. He knew what lingered in Moria, what evil waited in the depths of the mines.

And so did the Ring. It called out, one evil heart to another, beckoning shadow and flame to come out of hiding once more.

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**Hope to have a troll in the next chapter! :)**


	8. Haunted Creature

**Again, sorry for the wait. Things are moving for me career-wise, so this is unfortunately second priority right now. And for some reason, I can't stop thinking about Sakhra at Helm's Deep. Gah, that will be so awesome.**

**Concha G, the production designers went for an Aztec/Kiribati tribal feel in the movies, but in the books they seemed more Arab, plus the Hasharin assassins are based on the Hashashins of the Middle East, so I personally trend towards a more Middle-Eastern/Ancient Persia feel. The men of Far Harad, the jungles, are supposed to be more African according to my Middle-Earth atlas. Yes, I have a Middle-Earth atlas. Yes, I love it.**

**Enjoy!**

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**KIRAMIR**

**VIII - Haunted Creature**

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Legolas elected to take the watch, partly because he required little rest, but also because he did not want to shut his eyes in the black deep of Moria. So he stood, still as a statue, watching the shadows of the cavernous hall while the Fellowship huddled in the corner behind him. The occasional snores of the hobbits and grunts of the dwarf put him at ease, reminding him they lived, but another sound set him on edge.

_Farzane._

_Farzane. _

_Farzane._

She mumbled in her sleep, her voice echoing lightly off the stone. There were other words as well, names and snatches of Haradaic too low and fast for him to understand, but she always circled back to that name again. _Farzane._

Her sleeping patterns were known to him by now, and in a few more minutes, her eyes would open, her breath quick and shallow. He was not disappointed; Sakhra jolted awake soon after. She said nothing and he pretended not to notice, if only for her comfort.

_I must speak with Gandalf,_ he told himself. Such a haunted creature would be more susceptible to the Ring and a danger to the Quest. Even against her skills with a sword, her knowledge of Mordor, that was too great a risk. _She will need to be left behind._

After Moria, after they escaped the dark shadows of this wretched place, he intended to voice his concerns to Gandalf and the rest of the Fellowship. Surely they would heed his word. _The Gondorian is a concern as well_. He noted Boromir shifting in sleep, pulling his fur cloak tighter around himself. Even dreaming, he seemed to angle himself towards Frodo. _They are both a danger. _And deep down, in his heart he guarded so carefully, there was another warning. _Aragorn. The heir, the ranger, the man – my friend. Even he could fall to this foul evil, before our task is done. _

But even though Aragorn was a man, the blood of a weak king who succumbed long ago, Legolas didn't want to believe it. He was so strong, so brave – if Aragorn could fall, they all could. The hobbits, the dwarf, Gandalf, himself even. _Where will this darkness lead us?_

_Necessary darkness on the path to light. _Gandalf's words, whispered to Sakhra, still echoed in his memory. _And we have not even begun to pass through it._

Sakhra's breathing calmed again, telling Legolas she had fallen back asleep. He could see her in the darkness, one hand resting on her sword. The other curled into her jacket, probably gripping her dagger. _She is ready to kill, even in sleep_. But the hobbits, Sam and Frodo both, leaned against her on either side. It was a strange sight, a Hasharina assassin flanked by such rosy-cheeked innocence. _One of the strangest I have seen._

Though the light never changed to mark the coming of the dawn, Legolas could feel it anyway. He bent to wake Gandalf first, but the wizard was already stirring. It wasn't long before the rest of the Fellowship followed, stretching and yawning and packing up their little camp. By now, the wizard had found his bearings within the mines and set off at a determined pace through the abandoned halls. More hours passed with nothing but the occasional rat skittering through the corpses of dwarves, but the elf's unease never lifted. Not until he felt the sun on his face would he breath a sigh of relief.

Sakhra's own internal compass told her Gandalf was following a relatively straight path, moving westward through the maze of stairs and columns. She found herself wishing for the days before, when they marched through the wild foothills of the mountains, even though Boromir hated her, even though many distrusted her. That was well worth the price of being above ground.

They passed through the great hall, only to find many more like it, each one grander and greater and darker than the last. But Legolas noticed the faint light ahead, spilling out from beyond a doorway.

He squinted, trying to discern the source of light, be it sun or torch. The dwarf had no such time for things and gasped when he saw the door.

"Wait-," the elf reached out, meaning to pull the dwarf back, but Gimli was stronger than he seemed.

"Gimli!" Sakhra's voice echoed off the stone, also trying to call Gimli from running into a goblin horde or a trap or worse. But he heeded none of them, forcing the Fellowship to follow.

_Worse_, she realized, when they found Gimli on his knees, his head leaned against a pale white tomb. Sunlight beamed down, piped into the room by a deep-cut shaft. The dwarf wept openly, his words fading into broken Khuzdul in his grief.

"Here lies Balin, son of Fundin," Gandalf said gravely, reading off the runes carved into the tomb. "He is dead then. It is as I feared."

As her eyes adjusted to the light, Sakhra could see the room was filled with corpses. A battle was fought here, long ago. Blood, arrows and strangely _paper _littered the floor, sticking to her boots.

"This was a records room," she muttered, peeling a bit of parchment off her foot. The writing on it was Khuzdul runes, a language did not understand. Behind her Aragorn examined the door, noting the broken in hinges and the battered wood.

"They made their last stand here," he said, reading the stone floor and the fallen bodies like they were a children's book. "They fought bravely, but the goblins overwhelmed them."

A weight like a stone settled in Legolas's stomach, making his feet itch to keep moving. And in three thousand years, Legolas had learned to heed his heart's warning. "Aragorn, we must move on," he said lowly, muttering to his trusted friend. "We cannot linger."

Sakhra heard his whispered suspicions and couldn't help but agree. The air of this place, a foul combination of death and old blood, was enough to make a troll turn up his nose. And the corpses, dozens of armored dwarves with axes and swords and hammers and bows, gave her no comfort. If _they_ were overwhelmed by the goblins – _we ten would fair much worse. _

"How much further to the bridge?" she said, her voice higher than usually. As much as she tried, she couldn't keep the fear from making her words quiver. "Gandalf?"

But the old wizard didn't answer, stopping instead to examine an old book. He pried it from the hands of a corpse so gently, as if they were friends. "They have taken the Bridge and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long."

_Damn the wizard and his curiosity._ Sakhra wanted to speak, to tell Gandalf to simply take the book with him he was so interested, but she held her tongue. The words were grave and they made her voice die.

"The ground shakes," he continued, his own voice a rumble against silence. "Drums. Drums in the deep."

_I can hear the drums_, she thought, feeling them pound along with her heartbeat. But in her mind, it was not the drums of goblins, or even orcs, but the Haradrim. Their drums and horns and the thunderous march of mumakil across the ground. _Drums across the desert._

"We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark."

_Shadow. And flame. _Legolas knew of Durin's Bane, the remnant of a much darker evil still haunting the depths of Moria. And though he had lived many lives of men, fought in war, traveled in shadow, it made him more afraid than ever before. _We cannot linger_, his mind said again. Judging by the way Sakhra's fingers twitched, her feet tapping against the stone, she agreed with him. _She feels it too, though she doesn't understand why. _

"We cannot get out."

Even now, the walls of the record chamber seemed to shrink, stone on stone contracting to trap them into a shadowy coffin. _I am a daughter of the desert. I am meant to die under the sky, not in the heart of a mountain, shaded from the stars and the sand. This cannot be my end. This cannot be _Frodo's _end._ Her eyes fell on the hobbit, now watching Gandalf in rapt attention. Fear reflected deep in his eyes. _He should be afraid._

"They are coming."

"Gandalf-," she began, meaning to stop him from saying anymore, but the word barely passed her lips before chains shrieked against rock.

Pippin flinched next to a stone well, watching as a dwarf skeleton disintegrated under his fingers. The bones clacked and shattered, falling backwards, dragging with them clanking armor and rattling chains in a maelstrom of sound. The Fellowship watched in terrified silence, shuddering as the skeleton fell, crashing and smashing down into unfathomable depths. Then went the chain and, on top of everything, an iron bucket to top off the ruckus. All of it clanged, the echo rising up to surround them like a shroud, like a doom. Sakhra thought her heart might leap out of her chest at every crash and she held her breath, waiting for the tell-tale beating of drums that would be their funeral song. But the echoes faded away one by one, melting back into silence. Still, she listened, not daring to hope. Only when Legolas relaxed, exhaling lowly, did she breathe a sigh of relief. The elf would know if danger was coming, she knew that much to be true.

"Fool of a Took!" Gandalf snapped, rounding on Pippin now that the danger had passed. For his part, the hobbit flushed beet-red and looked properly ashamed. "Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!"

Pippin nodded sadly, his eyes on his toes. He opened his mouth to apologize, but something else cut him off.

_Boom._

_Boom. Doom._

For a split-second, Sakhra thought she was back on Caradhas, feeling the cold eat into her flesh and bone. But this was not the cold of snow or wind; it was fear_._ _Drums in the deep._

_Boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom. _

"Frodo!" Sam said, pointing a shaking finger at Frodo's sword. A hint of blue glowed at the hilt, and when Frodo drew the sword, the entire blade bloomed with eerie light. Coming from an Elvish blade, that could only mean one thing.

"Orcs!" Legolas snapped, notching an arrow to his bow without so much as a thought. He had fought orcs before, more times than he could count, but never in such a terrible place. Never pinned down in a room full of blood and stone.

_Boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom, boom-doom. _

Sakhra wanted to feel afraid, to linger in her fear, but her assassin's training pushed it away. Focus came, slowing her heartbeat, calming her mind, pushing adrenaline through her body. She felt _alive. _She felt _right. This is what I was saved for_. Her hands closed around an axe, tossing it to Aragorn as he wedged it against the door.

"They have a cave troll!" Boromir announced, drawing his head back inside. He slammed the door after him and pushed a spear against the wood. The meager barricade wouldn't do much, but it would slow the creatures enough.

_Cave troll. _Sakhra's blade killed men, orcs, goblins, but never trolls. _Larana, my sword, you will taste something different tonight. _

Gimli leapt up onto the tomb, an axe in both mailed fists as he snarled. The drumming grew closer with every second, and now they could hear screeches and howls. "Let them come!" the dwarf roared. "There's one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath!"

One glance told Sakhra the hobbits were safe as possible, all crowded behind Gandalf, with their little swords drawn. _They will have to use them, before this day is done. _Gandalf himself held his sword, Glamdring, and his staff, the deadliest weapon any of them possessed. He nodded at her, mouth pressed into a grim line. The jokes and fireworks of Gandalf the Gray were gone; he was the warrior wizard now.

The first wave of orcs slammed against the doors, making it buckle, but the old thing held firm. The orc tongue echoed on the air, yelling and shrieking, taunting them. Sakhra understood their words, as much as she didn't want to.

_"Intruders, trespassers, fiends and fools! We are coming, we are coming for you!"_

Her blade sang as she drew it, two hands closed around the hilt. It spun, once, twice, before she lifted her arms, holding the sword high above her head, settling into her lessons learned long ago. _Daggers and shadows are no use to me here. This is a battle fought plainly, like I never have before. _Boromir settled in next to her, and she didn't miss his curious glance. His own sword, a heavy thing for cleaving and stabbing, twirled in his hand.

"Perhaps the pair of us fighting side by side will confuse them," he muttered, pulling his round shield onto his other arm. There was even a shadow of a smile on his face.

Sakhra matched it easily. Now her heartbeat surged, excited by the screaming. "I'll take the right, you take the left?" she joked. "Shouldn't be much trouble."

"Bah, I'll take 'em all!" Gimli said from above them, his eyes wild with bloodlust.

A piece of the door shattered away, revealing a horrid pair of eyes. Then a Mirkwood arrow pierced between them, killing the beast. Legolas drew another arrow, his eyes never leaving the door. His focus was almost unnerving, but a comfort all the same.

Aragorn's own bow sang, picking off orcs through the steadily crumbling door. When it bursted inwards, unleashing the full fury of the horde, the first wave fell, peppered with arrows. But the next, and the next and the next were too many for archers alone.

_It has been long years since I fought like this_, Sakhra thought, remembering back to the guild and the training circle, when she was just a scrawny sixteen year-old girl against twenty. Every day she lost, and every day she came back to fight again, until one against twenty were even odds.

The first orc that came within her reach lost its head, her blade slicing clean through flesh and bone. Then she stopped thinking entirely, letting her muscles make the decisions. _I am the Sand Shadow, and I move like the storm in the desert, blowing through everything in my path. _She dipped, ducked, twisted and turned, her blade always finding the neck or the stomach or the big vein in the leg, leaving a trail of blood and innards behind her. Her leathers, already blackened by travel and wear, now glistened with the black blood of orcs and goblins.

She could see the Fellowship out of the corners of her eyes, all of them fighting as well or better than she. Gimli was a little ball of destruction, hacking and chopping through the orcs like a woodcutter through a forest. Judging by the hollow sound of cracking skulls, Gandalf's staff was doing well, and Boromir's shield clanged against armor, shattering bone. Aragorn darted across her vision, his long sword dripping blood, while Legolas leapt onto the landing surrounding the room. From this higher point, no one was safe from his arrows.

He fired with abandon, leveling orcs like they were targets on the range. Occasionally he turned his glance to the hobbits, meaning to protect Frodo, but Sam and the other two were doing that nicely. Their little swords were sharp and deadly, stabbing at any orc that made it past Gandalf. And Gandalf himself stood behind Sakhra, Boromir, Aragorn, and Gimli, the four warriors who were more like a wall. For the briefest of seconds, his gaze lingered on Sakhra and her flashing sword. The heavy blade, thicker than any he'd seen, seemed at home in her hands. He noticed that she fought brutally, mercilessly, every motion cutting through the largest veins and arteries. Even the orcs she left standing wouldn't last long, bleeding to death as they tried to keep fighting. _She is Hasharina, and she is trained to kill. _

The cave troll had almost gone from her mind, but the rumble of approaching feet could not be mistaken. When the beast smashed through the door, it sent orc and goblin flying, and it roared like a mumakil. There was a chain around its neck, but it didn't need to be led any longer. It had found them.

She ducked under a wicked orc blade with ease, then called over her shoulder. "Surround it!" She could almost taste the troll blood now, and to her surprise, she liked it. Many of her guild were like that, collectors of death, killers of trolls and wargs and the many creatures of the earth, but she never was. Man was her prey. _But I can always make an exception. _

"Sakhra, hold to the line!" she heard Aragorn yell back, trying to keep her in place. Their line of warriors was working, keeping the hobbits from any real danger, but the hobbits, even Frodo, even the Ring, was quickly fading from her mind. Now there was only the kill, fulfilling what she was raised to do.

But before Sakhra could break the formation, the troll did that for her, stumbling forward with its club. Legolas's arrows seemed to sprout from its stony flesh, but did nothing to impede the beast. It smashed Balin's tomb and the warrior line, leading the horde of orcs in its wake.

The battle descended into nothing more than chaos, where every breath and every swing of the blade could be your last. _This is more familiar. _She maneuvered herself through the fray, dancing towards the troll, needing to wet her blade with its black blood. It saw her coming and swung its club, but she slid beneath it with a smile. But before her blade could slash, the troll stumbled back, clutching at its collar. On the other side, she could see Aragorn and Boromir pulling it along by the chain, trying to bring it down. She wanted to push forward, to cut at the troll as it stumbled, but two figures at her back made her spin, blade high.

Frodo and Sam stared back her, their swords and, strangely, Sam's frying pan, tucked close. A dozen orcs rushed at the pair, shrieking about wanting to taste children's flesh. Their words made her forget the troll for a moment, and she screamed back at them.

"_I will drink your blood before you touch them_," she roared in Orcish. Though the words scraped and stung her throat, she enjoyed the taste of them. Their own language, shouted back from a human woman, made the orcs pause long enough for her to attack. Arrows followed her onslaught, cutting down the ones she couldn't.

When she turned back around, Sam and Frodo were gone, clambering onto the landing to outrun more attackers. She moved to follow, but a groan made her turn her head just in time to watch the troll throw Boromir into a wall. Legolas drew the beast away, his arrows drawing its focus, but orcs chased down the fallen man, and Sakhra followed. She cut down as many as she could, but one reached the Gondorian, his blade raised to kill. And then it fell back, a ranger's dagger in its neck. _Aragorn. _

Boromir's dazed eyes found the ranger through the chaos, wanting to thank him, but Aragorn nodded him off. Then he felt Sakhra's hands on his arms, pulling him back to his feet. _Two enemies made friends_, he thought dimly, letting her right him.

She patted his shoulder firmly, watching his eyes clear. "All there, Boromir?" In the heat of battle, she had to remind herself to speak the common tongue. But the crack of a chain against stone made her turn, forgetting the Gondorian.

_Legolas. _The elf was _playing _with the troll, darting back and forth to keep its attention. It whipped at him with its chain, cracking stone beneath its blows, but the elf didn't even flinch. When it struck out again, the chain wrapping around a column, Sakhra could barely believe her eyes. Legolas darted along the thin chain, until he stood astride the troll's shoulders. He fired arrows two at a time directly into its skull, but the thick bone held firm even against the Mirkwood bow.

"Jump!" she heard herself shout, though the elf hardly needed her help. He leapt to the ground, dodging the troll's hands, and landed easily on his feet. The troll strugged, momentarily chained to the column, and the elf spared a glance to the Hasharina.

Her face was spattered with orc blood, and the oily liquid ran off her blade in rivulets. Somehow, it didn't make her look foul or dirty. It seemed to suit her. _Child of death_, he remembered.

Sakhra wanted to hold his blue-eyed stare, but the battle still raged, and her blade still thirsted. She charged at the troll, but it snapped its chain before she could attack, and a wave of orcs kept her from advancing. One or two came too close for her liking, but arrows always cut them down. Gimli fought his way to her side, and to her surprise, his hacking, chopping style matched her nicely. She sliced over his head and jumped over his arcing axe, fighting back to back with the dwarf.

"Tell the others to take a rest, we have this handled," the dwarf chuckled through the bloodshed. Sakhra grinned, tasted blood on her lips, though not her own.

But a scream above the rest turned her heart, and fear finally spiked through her defenses. "Aragorn! Aragorn!" _Frodo._

The troll had the hobbit pinned, and was dragging him out to crush him. Before Sakhra could react, Aragorn was there, a long spear in hand. And then the man was smashed against a column, knocked out cold. Her legs moved without thought, pushing herself across the room.

To her shame, her thoughts were not of Frodo in that moment.

_The Ring. It must not get the Ring_.

But the spear thrust was like a hammer fall, slamming Frodo back against the wall. The troll grinned and laughed deep in its throat, watching Frodo gasp for air. Merry and Pippin leapt, their swords high, and began stabbing.

A strange quiet settled over the chamber as the last orcs died, leaving only the troll. The others bit at it, prodding the beast towards death, and Legolas waited, bow in hand. He struck at the precise moment, arrow digging into its throat.

She heard the death rattle as the troll drew its last breath, but didn't care at all. Instead, she skidded to a halt next to Aragorn, now clutching at Frodo. Sam was there as well, his tears cutting tracks down his dirty face.

"No," Aragorn murmured, moving to turn over Frodo's corpse. But instead of wide, dead eyes, he found a hobbit still alive. Mithril poked out from beneath his shirt collar, a kingly gift that saved Frodo's life.

Cool relief flooded through Sakhra and she slumped against the column, letting the stone support her. The battle was done and her adrenaline faded, soon to be replaced by the dull aches, bruises and cuts that littered her body. Her quivering fingers drew a crescent against her forehead, a silent prayer of thanks for her own survival – and Frodo's.

But the war was only beginning. More shrieks and screeches echoed from the hall as another horde approach, this one bigger than the last. _We must run now._

Gandalf stood tall, his eyes darting to the door. "To the Bridge of Khazad-Dum!"

She sprinted like she never had before, running with the Fellowship for their very lives. Once she dared look back, and felt the urge to pray. Then Legolas passed by her, running like a deer through the forest, and a very different urge took her. _I would knock that elf over if time permitted_, she thought, wanting to see him stumble if only once. And she begrudged him his appearance, still clean and smooth as the day they left Moria. In comparison, she could feel her face sticky with blood and dirt while her braid was coming undone.

But she still had her sword, and that was all she truly cared about. _This might be our end, Larana, _she thought as the orcs closed in, surrounding them in the shadowed hall of stone.

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**P.s. there are a bunch of Hobbit fics I'm following and none of them have updated in weeks and I am annoyed. I NEED MY THORIN ROMANCE. Part of me thinks if I keep updating, they'll keep updating. FINGERS CROSSED.**


	9. Shadow's Fall

**So sorry for the wait on this one, I had to do some edits and things that took precedence. I assure you, I'm not trying to be evil with my updates.**

**Also, GoTeamSkipper, I am amazed at your willpower. The fact that you haven't seen the movies, but you've read the books (and seem to be such a fan of them) is amazing to me. But it's also a nice reminder that I can't just rely on the movies to help me tell this story, as I'm constantly skipping over things thinking 'oh they've seen the movies they know what's up', so thanks for not letting me cheat!**

**Also also I've started a tumblr for this because why not: thesandshadow. tumblr .com - could not believe the URL was free.  
**

**Enjoy!**

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**KIRAMIR**

**IX - Shadow's Fall  
**

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She could almost feel the hot breath of goblins and orcs and all the foul creatures of darkness chasing at her heels, trying to trip her up and devour her. But she didn't turn around to attack; no, that would mean being left behind by the Fellowship. Instead she gripped her sword tight in one hand, her dagger alive and bright in the other. Soon both blades would taste blood. _And soon we'll meet our end_, she thought dimly, seeing the thousand glittering eyes leering out from the shadows.

They stopped as one, feet skidding over stone, forming a protective circle around the hobbits. Gandalf's staff did little to lift the darkness, but Sakhra could plainly see their foes had them surrounded with no way out. She did not fear death, having broken that human habit long ago in the guild of Umbar, but the screeching words of the orcs made her shiver. They sharpened their knives and licked their lips, eager to eat the hobbits one by one. The others were just as affected, clutching their weapons close. Only Gimli seemed completely unafraid, raising his axe high as he roared at the circle of enemies.

Legolas notched an arrow to his bow, ready to land the first blow in a battle that would certainly be his end. But something gave him pause, a deep tremor moving over the stone, an evil even the shadows seemed to run from. He felt it before the orcs, just as Gandalf gritted his teeth. The wizard knew this darkness better than him, but still Legolas understood what had come, rising to kill them all.

When the orcs shrieked, fear rippling through them, Sakhra barely caught their words. _Durin's Bane_, they howled, crawling and skittering over each other in an attempt to escape. They disappeared into cracks and shadows, leaving the Fellowship alone in the great hall. But even her human ears heard the grating sound, and her eyes saw the dull red light bleeding through the columns, moving closer by the second.

"What is this new devilry?" Boromir murmured to Gandalf, his eyes on the shifting shadows.

_Shadow and flame_, Legolas thought, lowering his bow. A fearsome thing, an enemy they could not fight. _We must run._

Sakhra had accompanied Gandalf over many paths, through shadow and shade, and never had she seen him so affected. It put a fear in her, one her assassin training could barely control. _Gandalf will lead us_. She took comfort in the thought. _Gandalf will protect us. _

"A balrog," the wizard said. "A demon of the ancient world."

_Balrog. _The word held no meaning for Boromir, nor the hobbits, but it fell on Aragorn, Sakhra and Gimli like a storm. Even the hearty dwarf lowered his axe, feeling fear poke through his armor. Aragorn put a hand on his sword, but Gandalf stopped him with a glance.

"This foe is beyond any of you," he continued, voice rising to a command. "Run!"

It was the only order Sakhra wanted to hear and she exploded into a sprint, feeling the Fellowship match her pace. Legolas could easily outstrip them all, but she noticed the elf fall back, running with Aragorn and Gandalf. _The strongest three_, she knew, ready to put themselves between the balrog and the Ring. Not that Aragorn's sword or Legolas's bow would be of much use against the fiery demon. She could only put her hope in Gandalf's staff, and in her own feet.

The hall ended in a shadowed passage, but a fiery red light danced on the walls as they twisted and turned down the steps. Once or twice the hobbits slipped, but Sakhra or another member were always there to catch them. Even Boromir stumbled when the stairs suddenly turned, opening onto a great red chasm. Only Legolas's quick reaction stopped the Gondorian from toppling over the side, saving him from a terrible doom.

Now the elf ran ahead, the first to scout the way, always ready to steady another member of the Fellowship should their footing fail. He looked back, always finding Frodo in the gloom, before letting his eyes trail to Sakhra. He need not worry about her balance, that much he could tell from the way she leapt from step to step, never stumbling even over the cracked and crumbling stone. The Hasharina was well-versed in agility, more than most humans.

"The Bridge is near!" she heard, echoing from the back of the line, and Sakhra turned to see Gandalf standing over Aragorn. He gestured far ahead, through the black canyon to a narrow bridge at the far side of the labyrinth of stairs.

But Aragorn didn't seem happy at the prospect, planting his feet next to the wizard. "Gandalf," he said, his voice loud over the distant roar of the balrog.

To Sakhra's dismay, the gray wizard shoved at Aragorn, pushing him away. The gesture was not unkind, but it was not gentle, and she knew what it meant. Her own feet stilled, stopping on the steps below them as she watched with baited breath.

Gandalf felt her stare and met her gaze, letting his eyes flicker between Aragorn and the Hasharina. "Do as I say!" he yelled, shouting at both of them. "Swords are no more use here."

He sounded almost broken, saying those words, and it made her cold, even in the heat of the approaching inferno. As much as she wanted to remain, to stand by Gandalf's side, the hard look in his eyes was enough to turn her away. She ran with Aragorn at her back, and the wizard even farther behind, his staff raised and ready as the stone ceiling shuddered overhead.

They rejoined the Fellowship at a wide crack in the stairs, a gap to slow their progress. Her heart raced as Legolas leapt across it, though she had no reason to fear for the elf. He was nimbler than them all; he could never fall.

Gandalf went next, leaping onto the lower steps with a swiftness not suited to such an old man. Legolas barely had to steady the wizard and quickly turned back, ready to aid the next to jump. But to his surprise, Sakhra had already made the leap, springing like a shadow across the yawning chasm below. She skidded on the stone steps but caught herself. To her surprise, she felt a warm hand at her collar, holding onto her leathers. _The elf. _He let her go as quickly as he came, moving his attention to the others.

An arrow sailed past, barely missing Sakhra's feet. "Sakhra, help them," he said, notching an arrow to his bow in a smooth motion. He fired up at the shadowed walls, his arrows finding orcs in the darkness.

Sakhra nodded, extending her arms out across the gap. The hobbits trembled, jumping back from the break even as arrows clattered at their feet. Boromir noted their fear and, after glancing at Sakhra, put his arms around Merry and Pippin.

She nodded, agreeing with his actions, and braced herself for the Gondorian to jump. He roared, leaping from the steps with the hobbits tucked close. They landed safely, with Pippin falling into her arms and Merry into Legolas's, but the stairs collapsed behind them, sending the others scrambling back from the crumbling stone.

"Sam!" Aragorn said, barely waiting for the hobbit before throwing him across the wider gap. Boromir caught him deftly, though the momentum made him stumble back. This time Sakhra took his arm, steadying the pair of them while Legolas fired off another arrow.

Across the way, Gimli backed away from Aragorn, his face a storm cloud of emotions. "Nobody tosses a dwarf," he growled, before launching himself across the gap with a mighty leap.

This time, Legolas was there to save the dwarf, catching him by the beard before he could fall back into the abyss. "Not the beard!" Gimli howled, before the elf pulled him back onto the steps.

"Better the beard than you, Gimli," Sakhra said, helping the dwarf regain his footing. But a harsh, resound _crack_ drowned out the dwarf's chuckle, as part of the mine walls sheered off, tumbling through the darkness.

It collided with the great stairway, crashing right through several yards behind Aragorn and Frodo, still separated from the rest of the Fellowship. _Frodo should have gone first, _Sakhra cursed to herself, wincing at the thought of how eagerly she leaped ahead. _That should be me up there, or Legolas. Both of us are better at this sort of thing. _

The stairs swayed, their foundations crumbling far below, and Aragorn felt the motions beneath him. He pulled Frodo close, moving both their bodies in time with the sway, using their momentum to push the stairs. With a gasp, Sakhra understood his ploy.

"Move back!" she shouted, pulling Boromir and Legolas away just as the section of stairs careened forward. "Move back!"

Legolas let her pull him, knowing she was right just as the stairs crashed together, sending shockwaves through the stonework. Frodo and Aragorn leapt forward, reunited with the Fellowship at last, even as the stairs crumbled behind them.

They ran for their lives, sprinting over collapsing stone and shadowy flame, to the bottom of the stairs where the air smelt clean and fresh. There was even light ahead, the white light of day filtering through the archway just beyond the Bridge of Khazad-Dum. But the flames grew with every passing second, pushing through the cracks in the floor and walls. Smoke swirled from every fissure, black and hot and heavy with evil.

This time she made sure Frodo ran before her, carrying the Ring over the narrow bridge to the safety of the far side. A roar screamed over the Fellowship as they sprinted, churning the air with hot breath, but no one stopped to turn and stare.

Only when she reached the other side did Sakhra think to look back, to see the foul beast of hell that haunted them. But it was not the balrog that put a fear in her, but the sight of Gandalf standing alone.

He planted himself in the center of the bridge, his staff and sword drawn and ready. And standing over him, ready to cross, crouched the most fearsome thing she had ever seen. Black with smoke and red with fire, it seemed to breath sulfur and its monstrous sword dripped hot iron. Horns crowned its head and its eyes were two bolts of flaming lightning, carrying in them all the hate of Morgoth. Wings of shadow stretched out, seeming to fill the immense chamber, and they stirred a hot wind that made even the Sand Shadow sweat.

"Gandalf!" Frodo screamed next to her, but Boromir was quick to pull the hobbit back from the edge of the bridge.

And then it was her own voice she heard, yelling in Haradaic, pleading, _begging_. "_Run, Ekelled! You must run!" _The great control she once prided herself on was all but gone, ebbing away as she watched Gandalf stand his ground against such a creature.

"I am a Servant of the Secret Fire," she barely heard over the beating of her own heart, "Wielder of the Flame of Arnor." He raised his staff and glowing gem at its tip seemed to create a sphere of light around him.

In response, the balrog twirled its sword, singing the air with its terrible blade.

"The dark fire shall not avail you," the wizard roared, goading the balrog, doing what no man or elf or dwarf could. "Flame of Udun!"

Its sword moved in an arc of fire, crashing down on Gandalf, but his light held firm, protecting the wizard from the demon. She wanted to yell, to run, to fight, to scream, but instead stood frozen to the spot. This was Gandalf as she had never seen him, a wizard, a warrior, greater and more fearsome than them all. Under different circumstances, she would be impressed, awed, but now she could barely breathe.

The balrog's sword shattered, falling away into the dark chasm below, and Gandalf almost laughed aloud. "Go back to the shadow."

With a crack like lightning, the balrog drew its next weapon, a flaming whip that snapped and sizzled in the air. It sniffed at Gandalf, scoffing at the wizard, before taking one terrible, clawed step onto to the bridge.

_We are all doomed_, she thought, seeing the beast unfurl itself.

"YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" His voice was thunder and his staff lightning, slamming down against the bridge with a blinding flash of light to split the darkness.

But the balrog did not turn away, instead putting another foot forward. And therein was its doom.

The bridge cracked beneath its feet, crumbling into the dark abyss of Khazad-Dum. Gandalf stared as the demon fell, clawing at the air, trying to fly, trying to escape, but it was too stunned, too affected by the wizard's power to save itself.

Sakhra wanted to cheer and shout, to hoot out the victory cry of the Haradrim, but the desire died quickly.

The whip curled around Gandalf's ankle, tugging him down. His sword and staff fell into blackness, never to be recovered, and the wizard, the Gray Uncle, Mithrandir, her friend, clutched at the edge of the bridge with old, slipping fingers.

Again, Frodo screamed, fighting Boromir tooth and nail. She felt arms close around her the moment she moved, tugging her back into a hard chest. Haradaic fell from her lips like blood, screaming and cursing and begging.

"_Let me go to him. Let me help him!_" She could barely see through her rage. "_Ekelled!_"

Gandalf met her eyes through the gloom, before his gaze flickered to Frodo. _He is saying good-bye_. Her heart clenched in her chest, almost stopping entirely to hear the wizard's last words.

"Fly you fools," he whispered, before sacrificing himself to save them all.

* * *

She didn't remember running up the steps, dodging arrows from the last few goblins, or even the first gasps of fresh air they found outside Moria in Dimrill Dale. Only when Legolas loosened his grasp did her memory return, rising up to meet her as she fell to the rocky ground.

Gimli was shouting somewhere, roaring to go back into the mines. She almost scoffed at him, but could not find the strength. _What good would that do?_ Pippin was sobbing somewhere, that much was easy to hear, and then she had no more use for sound. Her world closed, fading away into something she could understand.

Shaking fingers drew the crescent on her brow as she said the familiar words, thanking her gods for her life. And then she put her hands to her eyes, pressing against the lids while she cursed the heavenly beings for committing such evil. For taking Gandalf from them. It felt good to scream in her head, to use her language in the dark way it as meant to be spoken. She only wished she could scream it aloud, to carry out her own traditions of mourning. _Fire, blood, tears, all of it to help him pass. But we have no time for such things. _

Legolas did not understand this hollow feeling, this utter sorrow left in him. He had seen death before, but not like this. Not a friend, not a guide, not a _wizard_. And the others were so affected, so entirely broken. _How can we carry on now?_ His thoughts darkened to something far worse. _Who will die next?_

He stayed close to the Hasharina, having almost carried her out of the mines himself. She fought him, leaving bruises and cuts across his pale skin, somehow finding a strength even as she screamed. He didn't need to understand her words to understand her pain. And now, watching her pray, watching her fight the instinct to scream, it made him even sadder.

Tears made her dark eyes swim, flickering in the waning light of afternoon, and he expected to see them fall. Instead, she used whatever strength she had left to push away the pain. To his dismay, to his sorrow, he watched her draw the veil back across her face, retreating into the mask she once donned.

"Sakhra, don't," he heard himself say as he took a step towards her. When her eyes flashed to his, the words died in his throat.

"Don't tell me what to do," she hissed, rising to her feet in a smooth motion. She stalked away with motions smooth as a cat, but he could see the tightness, the tension squaring her shoulders like she was in physical pain. _Maybe she was. _

Night was coming, she could feel it, and with it all the dangers they had faced in Moria. Maybe more. Far off, she heard Aragorn shout her fears. Of course, Boromir argued, and she met his eyes over the weeping ruin of their Fellowship.

The Gondorian noted her veil and deflated. Her grief was so great she couldn't bear to show it, even to them. And somehow even she knew they must leave this place.

Her hands closed under Merry's collar, pulling him to his feet as gently as she could. He tried to hold onto Pippin but the younger hobbit shifted away from his friend's grasp. "We must be moving," she murmured, reaching down to help Pippin as well.

"It's my fault," the little hobbit choked, his face a ruin of tears. "I did this."

The Hasharin side of her had to agree, but that side was smaller than it once was. Instead, pity filled her heart. "No, Pippin," she said, crouching down to face him. "No, this was our path from the very beginning." The realizations came as she spoke, remembering how Gandalf had looked at her, how he had tried to guide Frodo. The darkness in his eyes never lifted. "Gandalf's passing is a necessary darkness on our path to the light."

Passing on wisdom that was not her own, wisdom that was _Gandalf's_, felt so wrong. But it seemed to cheer Pippin if only a little, and that was enough for her.

Frodo was another matter entirely. When Aragorn called him back from the rocks and the hobbit turned, Sakhra knew his hurt was deep, maybe even deeper than her own. He did not weep – he was in too much pain for that. The deep wells of his eyes, usually so alive, were fearfully blank. On other day, in another time, she would have tried to comfort him, but found she could not look on him long. He looked just like she felt, and she did not want to think on her feelings. Not now, maybe not ever again.

"Come, Gimli," she said quietly, returning to the dwarf's side. His jolly demeanor was gone, replaced by the same rage and sorrow she saw at Balin's tomb. But this was somehow worse.

He put out a hand, grasping her arm in a way that seemed to steady her, like he was some kind of anchor. Strangely, she felt the urge to pray again. "Dark are these days," Gimli said, casting a longing look back at the mountains. "Once those halls held warmth and light, and now they hold only death."

_And they will forever more. _Sakhra swore then never to pass underground again, never to take dwarf mine or goblin tunnel. She would never let the sky be veiled from her by rock and stone.

"We go to Lothlorien now," she replied, hoping the thought of another Elvish kingdom could cheer her. But like Gimli, the prospect of the woods held no comfort. She wondered if anything ever could again.

Legolas noted the way she clung to Gimli, and the way the dwarf answered back, using her as his crutch. The elf felt this sorrow of Gandalf's passing, but his immortal self was not so open as them, and his pride, his elvish nature, would not allow him to grieve so openly. _Her veil does the same for her, hiding her, masking her. Would that I could do the same, instead of standing apart._

With Gandalf gone, Aragorn took up the mantle of leading the Fellowship, with his grave eyes and a hard voice that had them all moving again. To the untrained eye, he looked unaffected by Gandalf's passing, but Sakhra noticed how he looked back. Always staring at the gate of Moria, straining to see a gray cloak against gray rocks, waiting for the wizard that would never join them.

The hobbits were quiet after that, their laughter and cheer dying with Gandalf the Gray.

* * *

**p.s. did anyone catch the hint to something that will happen far down the line in Return of the King?  
**


	10. Bruise

**Thanks for sticking with me guys! Seriously, I get more reviews with every chapter and it's amazing. I definitely feel the love.**

**Fair warning: this chapter is very talky. Luckily, it's Legolas, but still, some might find it slow.**

**And everyone who caught the Paths of the Dead reference, nicely done! (Besides it only makes sense that Sakhra would stick close to the army. After all, she knows how Haradrim fight, hmm hmm.)**

**MyCephei: good call on the injuries thing, but Sakhra's not really one for apologies...;)**

**ConchaG: I can safely say I've never gotten far enough in an awful OC story to watch a girl take the focus from Gandalf's death...ugh. Glad I didn't fall into that trap.**

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**X - Bruise  
**

* * *

The rocky slopes of the Misty Mountains quickly faded into the green meadows of the foothills. A golden haze clouded the eastern horizon, catching the slanting light of late afternoon. The breeze blowing through was sweet and ghostly, tinted with the power of the elves and the kingdom ahead.

Sakhra could smell it even through her veil and the pleasant scent almost made her gag. _Gandalf is dead. Nothing can ever be sweet again._ But she could not let her grief eclipse the quest or dull her mind. There were dangers everywhere, in the shadow of Lothlorien and even within.

As the Fellowship passed into the woods, letting the gray trees and golden leaves swallow them up, she paused to look back one last time. Dimrill Dale and the mountains beyond were shrouded in the shadow of dusk now, just like her heart.

Legolas had to consciously resist the urge to push her veil away, if only to see the face beneath, so he could try and understand the Hasharina. There was pain in her eyes, yes, but a carefully guarded one, the kind pushed away and hidden. He didn't doubt her memories, her sorrows, were all crowded at the back of her mind, waiting to explode and ruin her. That they could not allow. _For the good of the quest,_ he told himself. _For the quest._

He remembered her sharp words on the mountain, the second time she had snapped at him since their meeting in Rivendell. These words stung the most, like a deep bruise. He could still feel her grip on him, her nails, her kicks and punches as he dragged her out of Moria. Though he was an elf, they would still take time to heal. One of them even ached still, a bruise on his chest where her fist hit him. Without thinking, he let a hand trail to the bruise, feeling the hurt there, and the pain even deeper beneath, in his heart.

"I struck you," she murmured, falling to his side. Her words were eaten up by the wind and the rustle of leaves, but Legolas heard her.

"You were not yourself." It was the truth, and a harsh one. _If she can lose herself in such moments, to see nothing but rage and blades, what might she become in the dark days ahead?_ But he chased the thought away by focusing on her eyes, on the sharp fire still burning behind her grief. "You owe no apology to me."

Behind her veil, her lips quirked into a rare smile. "Do you hear me apologizing, Prince?"

His own eyes danced, pleased that her wit was returning. "I do not. But if you do not cease calling me 'Prince', I shall have to make you."

"There are more bruises where that came from," she said, pointing towards her chest with her chin. But her words held no threat, or at least as little there could be, coming from an assassin. "Legolas."

"Four months since Elrond's council and finally you call me by name," he said, amused by the notion. "And I thought elves were slow to act."

_Four months. It seems like a lifetime. _"Haradrim are slow to trust," she replied, choosing her words carefully. "And Hasharin do not trust at all."

When his blue eyes flashed to hers, she felt a sensation like lightning in her fingertips. It pulsed in her bones before fading away, replaced by the dead weight of Gandalf's absence.

"But you are not one of them anymore, Sakhra," he murmured, his voice so low she could barely hear him. The trees seemed to muffle everything, from their footsteps to her own heartbeat. "You are not," he said more fervently, like he was assuring himself as well as her.

She drew a heavy breath, trying to let the sweet air renew her, but it was no use. Despite the golden leaves and the sunset, there were shadows, there was sorrow, there was danger. The hobbits grouped close together, quiet for once, and Gimli kept his axe loose. Boromir shouldered his shield, casting suspicious glances all around, but always straying back to Frodo. And Aragorn's mask was slipping. The circles beneath his eyes were dark as bruises and he spoke little, for fear his voice might betray him.

_We are all haunted now_, she thought, _by our past, by our deeds, by the wizard, by the Ring_. Memories flashed in her mind, of blood, death, Farzane – all surrounded by an awful band of gold. _And I am the worst of all. _

"I am not," she said aloud, forcing what felt like a lie past her teeth.

Legolas seemed heartened by that, but she felt the ice of her old life bleeding through her. The calm, the focus, the _thrill_, the violent fun she used to have. _And now I pay for it with this violent sorrow, with this terrible quest that will destroy us all. _

She was so trapped in her thoughts that she barely noticed the arrow in her face or the ghostly elves melting out of the trees.

"The dwarf breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark," one of them said coolly, stepping forward to a position of command. He was blonde like Legolas, but more ethereal somehow, colder and far more detached from the world of men.

Gimli growled deep in his chest and Sakhra did not miss his strong fingers closing around his axe. She put a hand to his shoulder, stilling him with her touch, but his anger did not ebb away. Instead, this only seemed to draw the Lorien elf's attention away from the dwarf, to the Hasharina now standing on the doorstep of his kingdom.

The elf's eyes lingered on her, taking in her veil, her tattoos, even the little ring she still stubbornly wore. Like Legolas and Aragorn, he knew the stories, the myths and the horrible truths of her guild. She did not miss him square his shoulders, one hand grazing the dagger at his belt.

Aragorn saw it too and stepped between them, his hands clasped in a display of friendship. "_Haldir of Lorien_," he said in hasty Elvish, his voice pleading, "_We come here for your help. We need protection._"

But where the Rivendell elves were quick to take them in, this Haldir curled his lip and did not respond. Again he stared over the Fellowship and this time his eyes landed on Frodo, sensing the terrible thing he carried.

"_You bring great evil with you_," Haldir replied, clenching his jaw against Aragorn's words. "_You can go no further._"

Even though Sakhra did not understand Elvish, she could always tell when the answer was no. In spite of herself and her own apprehension about the elves, she felt her stomach turn to lead. _If they turn us away, there will be more danger, more death. Who will go next_?

Legolas felt an unfamiliar anger at the prospect of being turned away, especially by his kin. He was a prince of the Greenwood, the son of Thranduil, he was not one to be denied. And beyond that, this was the Fellowship of the Ring. Their quest was great, their need dire – to push them aside was tantamount to standing in their way.

"_You will let us pass, Captain Haldir_," the elf prince said, pushing pass Sakhra so he could face the marchwarden of Lorien fully. _I am the image of my father; now I must act like him too. _

The politics of the elves was a foreign thing to her, though she understood well the governments and dealings of men. It was strange to see Legolas step forward, his voice so hard and regal as to be forged of steel. _He is a prince_, she reminded herself. _He was born to be like this. _When Haldir bowed his head, offering the respect Legolas deserved, she couldn't help but smile behind her veil.

_"Legolas Thranduilion, welcome_," he said stiffly, put out by the turn of events. "_And Aragorn of the Dunedain, you are known to us as well. But the others-_," his voice trailed as he swept his eyes along the ragged line of weary travelers. Sakhra could feel his gaze as it passed over her, before falling back on Frodo.

Gimli finally erupted, his face reddening beneath his beard. "So much for the legendary courtesy of elves!" he shouted, "Speak words we can all understand!"

Sakhra remembered herself saying almost the same thing to Aragorn and Legolas back in Rivendell and was glad her veil hid her smirk now.

"We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the dark days," Haldir said coolly, turning his hard gaze on Gimli. The his eyes lifted to hers. "And never has a Haradrim passed through our borders and lived to tell of it."

_That you know of_, she wanted to say, remembering the tales of her old masters. The Hasharins of old were less than shadow, killers of elves and kings, blades flashing in the dark. No man could match them now, least of all her. But instead of educating Haldir, she steeled her jaw and pulled away her veil. It made her look less hostile and though he hated to admit it, the sight of the pretty girl beneath calmed Haldir a bit.

"I offer you no insult nor threat," she said, bowing her head even though it made her skin prickle. "And these days are strange, with strange happenings and strange allies."

"Strange indeed," Haldir murmured to himself, fighting the urge to sneer. But the wide eyes of the hobbits, of the Ringbearer, made it difficult for him. They seemed so sad and cold, devoid of any merriment as he knew no Halfling should be.

"You are sworn to protect Lothlorien," Legolas said, letting his voice soften. He approached Haldir as he would a brother in arms – indeed, they nearly were. "Our quest is to protect Middle-Earth, to protect men and elves and dwarves and all the kingdoms between, yours and mine among them."

She could see the way he shifted, if only minutely, and knew Haldir would be swayed by Legolas's diplomatic words. But still the captain hesitated, and this time it was not the Ring that held him back. In that moment, she hated herself and her skin and her swirling tattoos hard won in the south. She hated her name and her blade and wished to tear them all away, to pass through a fire to burn off her past. _But that is not to be. _

"I will go around," she said suddenly, taking a measured step back from the elven guard. _You knew it would come to this. You knew there were paths you could not follow. _"It will be nothing at all for you to meet me on the other side of the Wood."

A cold stone seemed to settle in Legolas's belly, frightening him. She would be fine on the borders, skirting around to meet them at the river, but it was not her survival that worried him. _You do not wish to be parted for her. _But why, how this feeling came to be, he could not say. The bruise on his chest ached again, this time in hot anger.

Aragorn opened his mouth to shout down her offer, but Legolas beat him to the words. "You will do no such thing," he snapped, his eyes cold as winter. His tone surprised even himself, and took them all back a little. Beneath his beard, Gimli fought a twisting smirk.

But before she could puzzle over Legolas's outburst, she felt a small, warm hand on her wrist. _So small and so heavy. Frodo. _For the first time since Gandalf's fall, he spoke.

"We are a Fellowship, Haldir of Lorien, and we do not break. You aid us all, or you aid none."

The rest of the Fellowship showed their agreement, from Merry and Pippin's loud approval to Boromir's stoic nod. More than anything else, the Gondorian's support gave her strength, to know that even he could come to see her as a companion and an ally. The elf said nothing at all, to her surprise. His eyes were downcast and dark, turned inward to puzzle out some confusion she did not understand.

"Frodo speaks the truth," Aragorn said, shifting so that he faced Haldir head on. To her amusement, it seemed the man was taller than the elf. "The Fellowship continues together or not at all."

Against the steel of Aragorn's hard gaze, the elf could not quarrel. He bowed his head, letting his golden hair catch the last light of day.

"Follow me," he said, before leading them through the Golden Wood.

* * *

_I know you hear its call. _

The voice was strange, barely a ghost on the wind, but surrounding all the same. It whispered through the leaves, in her ears, in her _blood. _She shifted, looking left and right, but no one else seemed to notice as they walked through the trees. Not even Legolas, who heard everything.

_Your heart is dark and full of shadow, full of want, full of fear._

She wanted to scream aloud, the shout back at the words, but bit her lip instead. _Now you're hearing voices, Sakhra? Are the dreams not enough? Has your madness finally taken hold?_ Her fist clenched around the hilt of her sword, as if her grip could chase away the voice of a ghost. But it only multiplied, until the voice was all she knew.

_You hear the Ring. You desire it, and yet…you resist. You turn away, you pull back when you must. Your heart is darker than all the rest, and yet you resist. Something gives you strength._

Up ahead, the great city of Lothlorien, Caras Galadhon, twinkled through the treetops, but Sakhra barely saw it. Her eyes were turned inward as she followed across the forest road. _Strength…I have not been strong in quite some time._

_You have many names, some fearful, some shameful. But Terazon they named you, and Terazon you shall be. A guardian of the Ring, of the hobbit, of the Fellowship…of two hearts. Your own, and another's._

Her eyes widened at that, not understanding what the voice meant. _Two hearts?_

_There is love in you still, and love will make you strong. Remember this, when the darkness truly falls. Remember love and forget who you were. _

A scoff sounded deep in her throat, despite her pursed lips. _Love. I have no use for such a thing. _

She expected the voice to chide her, but it faded away, replaced with the music of the elves and the muffled sound of their feet on the mallorn leaves. Without the voice, Sakhra's awareness returned and she found herself gaping at the glory of Lothlorien. All around, the massive trees reached into the falling night, their leaves crowned with crystal lights and glass-carved chambers. Stairs wound around the trunks like glittering veins, carrying elves who seemed to glow into the sky. Against the realms of men, the White City of Gondor, the port of Umbar, even the fallen fortress of Minas Morgul, this was a great sight, greater than any she had ever seen.

"They say a sorceress lives here, an elf-witch of terrible power," Gimli whispered to the hobbits, but none of them seemed to notice. They were too entranced by their surroundings, as was Sakhra.

"Not a witch, Gimli," Aragorn said. He alone kept his wits within the kingdom made of starlight, having passed here before under much better circumstances. "But a woman of power indeed."

Haldir threw a dark look over his shoulder but said nothing, restraining himself from goading the dwarf. Strange, that was once Legolas's forte, but he seemed to have put that habit aside. Now he walked alongside the dwarf, not speaking, but quietly reassuring the dwarf with his presence. The elf prince alone commanded respect here and it eased Gimli's mind, and Sakhra's as well.

"Long since I last walked this way," he said, examining the city with keen eyes. Though decades, centuries even, had passed since his last visit, it seemed the same as always. _No_, he realized. _Lothlorien is fading. The leaves fall, the wind grows cold, and the light of the stars has dimmed. It is fading, as are all elven places of this land. _The thought put a sadness in him, one he did not want to feel.

Sakhra noted the strangeness in his eyes but said nothing, electing instead to lay a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "Perhaps one day the elves will sing of this strange company, of the Haradrim and the dwarf who braved the depths of Lorien?"

"I don't know about you, lass," Gimli chortled, patting her arm, "but they already sing songs of me back home. Gimli the Brave, Gimli the Valiant-."

Grateful for the distraction, Legolas smiled. "Gimli the Modest?" he offered. Warmth swept through him as Sakhra laughed, though the sound was tainted, reserved somehow. Still, her laughter heartened him.

To his surprise, Gimli didn't redden or anger. Instead he guffawed, stamping his booted feet. "No, Gimli the Modest is not a song they would sing of me."

"Imagine our surprise," Sakhra said, exchanging a mirthful glance with the elf. _Two hearts, _the voice echoed, but she chased it away. "And how does Mirkwood compare to this place, Legolas?"

The others were barely listening: the hobbits too entranced with the beauty of Lothlorien, Aragorn deep in conversation with Haldir, and Boromir so focused on his own feet that he was almost stumbling from the effort. But Sakhra and Gimli waited eagerly (thought the dwarf would not admit it) to hear of the other elven kingdom.

"We elves call it the Greenwood, for nothing beneath tree is mirky to us," the prince said, happy for the conversation. Remembering home was easy and pleasant but, he realized, also bittersweet. _Anyone of us can fall, even me._

"I shall adjust my maps accordingly," Sakhra said dryly with the hint of a smile. "Though the wood was more black than green the last time I passed through."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by this. "You have been to the Greenwood?"

"Once," she said, nodding. "I had need of the enchanted river water for a contract." Her body stiffened at the mention of a contract, but Legolas did not press her. He knew the river of which she spoke, one that induced slumber and forgetfulness. Often the elves tipped their arrows in such water, to bring down foes without killing them.

Gimli shouldered the burden of drawing focus away from her past, clearing his throat. "My father passed over that very same river," he said, "With your own cousin Bilbo on their journey to Erebor."

Frodo perked up his head at that, tearing his eyes away from the glittering staircase ahead of them. "In Rivendell, Bilbo told me of the river and the wood. And your own involvement with their quest, Legolas."

The slightest flush crept over Legolas as he remembered that time gone by, as well as his deeds then. "Indeed, I played my part in Master Baggins's tale."

"What weaving pasts you have," Sakhra mused, her eyes on her hands. Her own history did not intersect as theirs did, at least not on such pleasant terms.

She traced the tattoos with a glance, remembering their meanings plainly. _Bravery, boldness, skill, death, _and a dozen other things the desert held dear. Her own _khasar_, name rune, was tattooed down her side, hidden by layers of leather and wool, but she thought on it often. There was another name to add, though she doubted the elves were much for marking her skin.

"I fear my own only crossed with Gandalf," she added, her voice fading away at the mention of the dead wizard. She did not add that Legolas's name was in the contracts, or Aragorn's or Boromir's. That she had been contracted to kill Boromir's own father and refused.

"But that brought you here," Legolas said, noting her unease. "Your path crosses our own now. No," he said suddenly, and again the bruise on his chest ached. "Our paths are the same."

_Two hearts._

The voice returned, almost making her jump.

_One path._ _But to light or to darkness, I cannot yet say. _

In the glimmer of Lothlorien, Legolas watched her face twitch and change. Her smile died quickly and she turned away. _I have offended her. I should not be so presumptuous. Her path is her own. _Internally, he cursed himself for not being so elvish as he should. Calm, quiet, slow and steady, that's what he should be, that's what he _was_ – so why did he feel himself changing?

And then he heard a voice as well, a musical and melodic voice that almost entranced him on the spot.

_Love can save you, Legolas Thranduilion, _it said, making him shiver. _But love can kill you all the same._

* * *

**Expected to get to Galadriel this chapter, but obviously my writing stretches things out way too much. Whatever whatever I do what I want._  
_**


	11. Dark Sun

**Ugh, so sorry for how long this took. Luckily, it was for a good cause, since I (ohmygod I still can't believe it) signed with an amazing literary agent and we've been doing revisions on my manuscript. It's going out on submission soon, which means I'll be an absolute wreck, which means I'll throw myself into writing, so hooray for everyone involved! The only downside is, if by some miracle the book gets sold, I'll have to make some changes fanfiction-wise since technically I'm not supposed to be doing this.  
**

**But I won't tell if you won't. :)**

**p.s. Follow thesandshadow dot tumblr if you guys want updates, I'm going to try and post there my progress/when I'll be updating the story. And if anyone is good at photoshop, I WOULD DIE FOR SOME LEGOLAS/SAKHRA OR JUST HARADRIM THINGS. I WOULD DIE AND WRITE YOU ONE-SHOTS.  
**

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**XI - Dark Sun  
**

* * *

They ascended through the trees in silence, letting the music of the elves wash over them. A soft breeze plucked at their clothes and Sakhra lowered her hood, not because of the wind, but because she sensed something great and terrible coming, something deserving her respect. The twinkling lights of Lothlorien glinted in her hair, crowning her in starlight, and for a moment she looked to be an elf herself. But there was no mistaking her tanned skin, her tattoos or her scars. Even here, the fallen Hasharina could not hide.

Again, her eyes widened as they reached the crown of the stairs and the open hall of the Lady of Lothlorien, Galadriel. _Her name is not in the contracts. Even assassins are not so bold._

For the first time in her life, Sakhra felt the urge to bow, but straightened her spine against the feeling. When the elf queen descended the stairs, the Hasharina was suddenly conscious of the dirt and sweat and blood that seemed to darken every inch of her. Compared to the white lady, gleaming like a living star made of silk and flesh, she was nothing, barely a cloud of dust blowing in a storm.

The Lord of Lothlorien, the great Celeborn, was as grave as his wife was fair. His eyes looked over the Fellowship, searching for the one who had not survived Moria.

"Nine there are year, yet ten there were set out from Rivendell," he said, letting his gaze rest on Aragorn. To his credit, the man did not waver under such a weight. "Tell me, where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him."

Sakhra felt her resolve weaken and her eyes fell from the mighty elves, unable to look. A now familiar pain rose up in her, taunting her with Gandalf's death. _Ekelled, the Gray Uncle, _she thought. _My friend is dead and I could not save him._

As perceptive as she was beautiful, Galadriel read their reactions to Gandalf's name with ease and her heart wept at what she learned. "He has fallen into shadow," she murmured, letting her eyes stray to her kinsmen, the Prince of Mirkwood.

Legolas bowed his head slightly. "He was taken by both Shadow and Flame: a Balrog of Morgoth," he said, forcing as much disdain as he could into the words.

Long ago, Sakhra had learned to turn sadness to anger, and now her temper flared again. _The wizard's memory should not be one of defeat, but victory_. "And Gandalf took the beast with him," she said firmly, forcing herself to look back up. "He gave his life to kill the demon, and save us all."

"And save you he did, Sakhra Shastaskar," Galadriel answered with a look that could pierce bone. Like everything she said, the words carried a second meaning.

In her head, Sakhra heard the voice again. _But not for this_, it said. _He did not save you to walk at the end of a line, to hunt rabbits and befriend Halflings. Your purpose is far greater, and has not come to pass yet._

_Galadriel,_ Sakhra whispered in her head, finally recognizing the voice she had been hearing belonged to such a regal being. But Galadriel turned her eyes away and did not answer, her attention now on the rest of the Fellowship.

"The Quest stands upon the edge of a knife," she said, her voice sharp and true. As her gaze passed over the Fellowship, Sakhra noted their faces changing, falling or rising based on whatever they heard whispered in the mind. To Sakhra's dismay, Boromir dipped his head, fighting tears.

_What could be wrong with the Gondorian?_ she wondered, an unfamiliar pang of sympathy coursing through her. Once he was her enemy; now a companion, a brother in arms, someone to protect and aid if she could.

Legolas's own mind was ready for the whispered words, long accustomed to the ways of powerful elves. But when her voice came, he couldn't stop the shivers from coursing through him. _Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree. Content you have lived, but beware of the sea. If you hear the cry of the gull on the shore, your heart will rest in the forest no more. _

He knew of the sea calling, of the inexorable pull all elves felt when they saw the ocean. But it did not frighten him, or at least, he told himself so. After three thousand years he should be happy to leave Middle-Earth, a place of sorrow and death. But something told him to fear, something made him pause when he thought of abandoning this world.

_But if you must remain in the world of a dream, look to the sun, though dark it may seem_. And then her voice faded, leaving him with a riddle he could not possibly puzzle out.

"Do not let your hearts be troubled," the Lady spoke aloud, pulling her power back from their thoughts. But despite her words, they felt trouble indeed. Even Galadriel could not comfort the Fellowship now. "Go now and rest, for you are weary with sorrow and much toil."

It was the only invitation they needed. Long days in the dark and long hours in mourning had taken their toll and even Aragorn lay down willingly that night.

Sakhra was not so lucky. The haunting voices of the elves filtered through the trees, lulling the others to sleep in their makeshift camp, had the opposite affect on the fallen Hasharina. Howling sand winds and marching feet and horns were her lullaby, not these melodies. She turned on the silk pallet, chasing at the sleep she so desperately needed, but it never came. Even here, in the safest place they could hope to find, with good food and Elvish luxuries all around, she could not find it in herself to shut her eyes.

She rose from the pallet quietly so as not to wake the others, though they slept deeply. Only Aragorn stirred a little, his back against the roots of a mallorn. Still on his guard, still watchful, even in Lothlorien, even in sleep. He watched her stand through slitted eyes but said nothing to hold her back. _She needs peace more than she needs rest_, he thought, before falling back to sleep.

Her hair fell in curling waves, now free from the usual braids that held them back. It needed a wash, and badly, so she picked her way through her sleeping companions, following the distant sounds of a gurgling stream. Elves passed on the edge of her vision, their footsteps silent over the mossy ground, but none crossed her path. They were not fearful, but cautious. Some even stopped to stare at the Haradrim woman in Lothlorien. They were all fair and pale, like Legolas, but much colder than the elf prince.

As she reached the stream, kneeling on a flat stone, she pulled off her jacket for what felt like the first time in years. The soft leather peeled away, revealing her dark red tunic beneath. The once coarse fabric was worn by the years, faded in places and stained in others, but she would not trade it for all the silk in Rivendell. She rolled her shoulders, working out the usual aches she had become used to. Now the air of Lothlorien seemed to be healing them, working through her muscles with some Elvish magic she did not understand.

There was a silver bowl nearby, and a pitcher, as someone knew her purpose there. It was nothing at all to fill the bowl and begin washing her hair, combing through the dark locks with nimble fingers. Dirt and a blood swirled in the bowl, the remnants of Moria and everything they left there. She stared at the darkened water for a long while, longer than she cared to think about, until her hair was nearly dry.

This time, Legolas took care to make enough noise so that she would notice his approach. He left his feet drag over the moss, rustling the foliage. She turned sharply, expecting to see a hobbit or a man or even Gimli, but never an elf.

"You can just say hello," she said, surveying him with a sharp eye. "You don't need to make a racket."

"_Goheno nin_," he replied without thought. It was almost too easy to fall into his own language here beneath the mallorn trees. "Forgive me," he added, translating for her.

She nodded, smirking at his politeness. The prince was so stiff, so proper. _He would not survive a single day in Harad – or a night_, she thought with a blush. "Elvish is very beautiful," she said hastily, trying to distract herself from the sudden thought.

"It is. Perhaps you will learn it someday?" He paused on the bank, careful to keep a respectable distance. His hands clasped behind his back as he settled into a familiar stance, using it as a shield against her. Still, he did not miss her fluid motions as she cleaned the bowl, or pulled back her hair.

Swift fingers tied her hair into a simple, long braid. Not fit for battle, or even travel, but good enough for a calm night. "I doubt it," she answered, looking over her shoulder.

"But you have such a talent for languages." Briefly, his mind flashed back to the battle in Moria. Her voice was so sharp, so terrible, when she screamed in Orcish.

Sakhra was not Galadriel, but she could see his mind all the same. Orcish was a horrible thing to speak and it made her flush to remember it. "Orcish, Haradaic, the Black Speech, even the Common Tongue, all sharp and harsh words. I'm afraid Elvish will always be foreign to me. It's just too beautiful."

His blue eyes hesitated on her face a moment, watching a storm cloud of emotions pass over her. _Too beautiful_, he thought ruefully.

She felt his gaze and, to her surprise, did not want to pull away from it. But she forced herself to, standing back up from the rock. The stream gurgled beneath her, carrying away the dirt and blood and the memories of Moria that would always plague her. Silhouetted against the lamps and stars, without her leather, Legolas realized she was much smaller than he thought.

"Would you have done it?" he blurted out, unable to catch the words before they spilled from him. She turned, an eyebrow raised in silent question. "Journey around Lothlorien alone?"

Sakhra scoffed aloud, annoyed. Always, Legolas seemed to think her incapable, even after what they'd been through. "I journeyed to _Rivendell_ alone. This would be nothing at all."

He waved a hand, taking a step forward without thought. "I know that, I just meant – you would leave us so willingly?"

"If leaving meant aiding the quest."

The words hung in the air, a weight on both of them. _The Ring_ rang out in both their minds. _Men are corrupted, men are weak. _He held her gaze as long as he could, surprised by the steel and sorrow he found there. _Gandalf was her strength_, he realized, _Gandalf was her own guardian, against the demon inside. _

She did not like the way he was looking at her. _Pity_, she screamed in her head, recognizing what it was behind his eyes. She despised pity in all its forms, even when she was a girl at the guild. She was a slave who became the sand shadow; she did not deserve pity. With a huff, she walked past him, back towards their camp.

The elf was quick to follow on silent feet but she could feel him there, just out of reach. The Hasharina was a mystery to him, a mystery he doubted he would ever solve. He fixed his gaze on her collar, on skin he had never seen before. Black tattoos swirled there in patterns he did not understand, but he knew they told her story, spelling her name and her deeds for any Haradrim to see.

_Why does he plague me so, _she asked herself, fighting the urge to spin around. Sakhra was a woman of the South and so she understood the ways of men, but this was no man at all. Legolas was an elf and she did not understand him at all. _He thinks me a child, a burden, a passing breath in his long life. _Not at all like her thoughts of him. _When I am old I will tell others of this quest, how I walked with an elf prince and a future king and the Ringbearer._

_But Hasharin do not grow old_, her mind scolded. _Hasharin die young and die well. And as much as you may run from them, that fate is still your own._

The thought did not sadden her. If anything, it was a reprieve. _Besides, I will have no one to tell my tales. Not a husband or children. I would have no one at all._

Legolas stopped short next to her, his steady feet making no noise at all. Still she was painfully aware of his absence after a moment, and turned around. He stared, not at her, but through the trees, towards their camp. His brow furrowed, lips twitching into a scowl.

"What is it?" she said, wondering what could possibly be wrong in such a place.

His expression soured at the voices filtered through the trees. "They are bickering again."

She did not need to ask to know. _Boromir and Aragorn. The others would not argue, not now. _"Again?"

"Could you not hear them? They argued every step of our flight here, from Dimrill Dale to the eaves of the wood."

"I suppose I was preoccupied." Her eyes dropped, remembering their mournful flight from the mountains. A dragon could have fallen upon them and she would not have noticed, she was so wrapped in her grief.

Legolas chided himself for forgetting her pain, almost cursing aloud. "Yes, of course. I'm so sorry-."

But she took it in stride, forcing a smile to placate him. The elf was always so careful around her and it was infuriating. "Besides, I do not have the ears of elves, Legolas," she added, reaching up to tap one of his pointed ears without so much as a thought.

The action froze them both, locking the pair in a sudden stillness broken only by the wind and distant singing. His eyes widened, surprised both at her boldness and the strange sensation he felt coursing through his body. It was like nothing before, both cold and warm, a shock that seemed to curl into his soul. She recovered first, though not before pulling away from him with blinding speed.

She forced a laugh, trying to cover up her own discomfort and unease. Like Legolas, her actions had shocked her. "Begging your pardon, that was very Haradrim of me," she said, blaming her heritage. In Harad, such a touch would not even be acknowledged, but here, in this place, with _him_…she knew it meant something else entirely. And perhaps she preferred it that way.

Legolas's white smile returned as he recovered, also taking a small step back. To his surprise, it took a great effort to do so. "It's quite fine. If the flicking of ears bothered me, I would not have joined the quest."

He expected her to joke with him again, to let her wit surface, but that would not be. Instead, she began walking again, this time in bleak silence. Her hands closed around themselves like she had to forcibly hold herself back from touching him again.

"I'm curious to know more about your customs in the South," he prodded. Indeed, the South was curious to him and Legolas always enjoyed learning about new cultures. But also he wanted to hear her voice again, and that desire outweighed anything else, no matter what he told himself.

She sighed, grateful for the change in conversation. "There's not much to tell, really. We are loud and harsh and most of us take delight in whatever we will."

"Most?"

"Slaves are not so lucky as the free men of Harad." There was a sharpness to her words, but no regret. No shame, to her own surprise. _Legolas can be trusted_, she told herself. _I have nothing to fear from talking to him._

Though the others might have ignored her brief slips in conversation, Legolas remembered them all. He collected the tiny pieces of her past like a miser with his jewels. "And you were born a slave," he said, and there was anger in his voice.

"But I will not die one," she said evenly, without much bite.

_You will not die at all_, he answered in his head, even though it was not something he could promise anyone. Even himself.

"Feasts are different in the South," she continued, "They last for days, sometimes weeks, until the food and wine gave out. Then hosts would chase their guests from the hall or tent to find another party to laze through."

Legolas smiled at the thought, imagining his royal father doing the same thing after one of his own famed parties. "It sounds like you know this firsthand."

"No man ever chased me away," she said, allowing herself a pleased smirk.

_I can understand that._ "You stayed behind to kill them?"

Her breath hitched a little as the memories came swirling back. Of bed and blades, she'd had her share. The pure prince, on the other hand, she assumed he knew nothing of that. "Among other things," she murmured. Her eyes met his, brown on blue, in a gaze that spoke more than she wanted to say aloud. She expected to see judgment in his eyes, but it never appeared.

The Hasharina was a haunted woman, Legolas knew as much, but now he understood how deep her hurt went. How much she had done, and how much she had given for her old life, to the people who gave her purpose. It made him feel sick.

"The guild trains us so well," she muttered, speaking quickly now in an attempt to explain. "To obey our leaders, to honor our contracts. A Hasharin will do anything to achieve their goals. That's how I earned my name."

_You owe me no explanation_, he wanted to say, but it never came. "Shastaskar?" _Sand shadow._

She shook her head ruefully and her hand strayed to her side, to her name rune. "It is not a name I tell many, least of all wide-eyed hobbits. It is a terrible thing, a stain upon my conscious. And I should not say it here, in such a pure place."

"Very well," he said, doing his very best to keep himself in check. It was all he could do to keep from comforting her, though he knew it was not what she wanted. "Haradrim can lose names as well as gain them. I know that much. And I'm sure you've done enough to lose that one."

A breath of air escaped her in a relieved sigh. "I have lost a name before, actually, but that was long ago. _Tarsin Kaa_, the Scorpion Queen. When I first earned my ring and was awarded contracts of my own, I used poison to kill, not steel. Darts, tipped arrows, a bit of powder in a cup. I kept my hands clean. But as I grew used to death, my weapons changed. The sword became my own, and then the dagger."

His eyes strayed to her belt, to the dagger that never left her side. Even here, it gleamed with a wicked light. "The dagger is an intimate way to kill."

When her eyes met his, he felt the shivering sensation again. But this time he did not enjoy it. This time it made him afraid, afraid for her, and for himself.

"I killed intimately," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. But Legolas heard and Legolas understood.

The camp loomed ahead now and they could see the hobbits – and hear Gimli – sleeping soundly. Aragorn and Boromir were just shadows in the trees, both arguing with words she still could not hear. The stockier shadow, Boromir, turned and stalked away, disappearing further into the wood, while Aragorn returned to camp. He glanced up to see Sakhra and Legolas returning, and allowed himself a tiny, tight smile at the thought of them.

"I think I should speak with Boromir," Sakhra said, her eyes trailing after the Gondorian. "His mood troubles me."

Legolas nodded, though body felt oddly tight at the thought. The man troubled him as well, enough to make him uneasy about leaving him alone with Sakhra. But he was wise enough not to disagree with the Hasharina, or to try and hold her back. "Strange as it sounds, I think you might be able to talk some sense into him."

Her laughter returned, this time pure and true like the ringing of silver bells. "Is that strange because of my skin or because I have no sense of my own?"

He smiled to himself, not stupid enough to answer such a question, and gestured with a flick of his head. "Go on then."

But her smile did not last the moment, fading into her usual mask of controlled features. Her eyes though, her eyes were bright with what looked like fear. "Legolas, I must ask – this conversation-," she stammered, for once at a loss for words.

Again, Legolas fought the urge to step forward. Instead, he stepped back, hands clasped together, listening to the harried beating of her heart.

"I won't speak of it. You have my word."

* * *

**Somehow I'm going to stretch Lothlorien into three chapters. God, I'm a freak of nature. Sucks that the only scenes I can think about are Helm's Deep/the sick after-party in Edoras where there will be DANCING._  
_**


	12. Strong Will And Cold Water

**I WANT A HARADRIM FANDOM. I WANT ONE SO BADLY. Sorry, I'm just really in love with all the head canons I have concerning Harad and their people. (And maybe we'll get to see that country first hand, hint hint.) If you follow the tumblr, you might notice a few outfits cropping up that Sakhra will be wearing later. Let's just say the Haradrim are not so modest as the Men of the West.  
**

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**XII - Strong Will And Cold Water  
**

* * *

She stepped lightly over Gimli's legs, passing over the snoring dwarf in her attempt to get through their camp. Aragorn caught her eye and understood her purpose. He shook his head slightly, trying to warn her.

"He needs to be alone," he murmured.

"No," she replied, not stopping for a moment. "He needs someone to understand."

And understand she did. The Gondorian felt the call of the Ring and wanted it for his own. In her deepest heart, Sakhra knew she felt the same. If the moment came, would she be strong enough to resist it? _Would he? _The thought frightened her more than orcs or trolls or all the shadows of Mordor. Falling to the Ring, turning on the Fellowship they fought so hard to protect…that would be the worst kind of doom and she did not want it for anyone.

Like a shadow, she faded into the trees, disappearing after Boromir in a whisper of leaves and fabric. Legolas watched her go and reminded himself that she was safe here. No harm would come to her beneath the boughs of Lothlorien. _Or anywhere else, for that matter. She is no defenseless maiden. _He reminded himself of that daily, but still it was difficult to let her out of his sight.

After a moment, he noticed Aragorn was staring at him, his gray eyes cold with accusation.

"_What?_" Legolas asked in Elvish, crossing his arms like an offended child. He returned his gaze with equal steel, calling on the memories of his father on his throne.

But Aragorn did not quail; instead, he seemed to tighten. "_Dangerous ground, my friend._" There was a sadness to his words, a pity even. "_I know that all too well._"

Legolas had to resist the very human urge to roll his eyes and settled for turning away. "_My concern is for the Quest and nothing else_," he replied icily, careful to keep his voice low. He had never spoken to Aragorn this way, not in all their years of friendship, and it stung him to be so sharp. But somehow Aragorn's riddled warning had burned him, an insult as much as advice. _I am not Aragorn, and Sakhra is not Arwen. _Just the thought made his muscles tighten. _My concern is for the Quest_, he repeated in his head, as if the words could make it true.

The ranger watched his friend grapple with himself, but said nothing. _Three thousand years old and he still cannot lie_, Aragorn mused to himself. Under different circumstances, he would have laughed, would have given Legolas his blessing and support, but these were evil times. Even his own romance with Elrond's daughter, a love he would mourn the rest of his life, was sacrificed for the good of all. Legolas would have to do the same, killing any feeling he had for the Hasharina at the root. And the sooner, the better, before they blossomed into something to strong to destroy.

"Legolas-," he began, taking measured steps towards the elf prince, but Legolas stopped him with an outstretched hand.

"I understand your worry, my friend," Legolas said, his voice softening with every passing moment. It was not a lie. If he came to _feel _for Sakhra, if he let himself care for her above the Quest, it could spell ruin for them all. That was something Legolas could not allow. _And it is not a danger_, he whispered in his head. _She is a friend. Barely a friend. Nothing more. _"You have nothing to fear."

Against the echo of elven singing, under a sky made of starlight, it was easy to believe the prince. Legolas would not lie, it was not in his nature. But as Aragorn settled back against his tree, ending the conversation, he still felt uneasy. _Love changes all men_, he thought, before slipping into shallow sleep.

After watching over camp for a while, Legolas felt strangely cold, his limbs heavy with an exhaustion like he'd never known. So many days without rest had taken their toll, even on an elf, and he surrendered to the feeling. He took great care as he prepared for his much needed rest, making sure to drag his pallet as far away from Sakhra's as he could. When he shut his eyes, she still had not returned, and it made him uneasy.

_Love can kill you all the same_. The voice echoed in his head again, a prayer barely remembered in his slumber. That night he dreamed of roaring waves, white birds and a dark sun that gave off a warmth he could not understand.

* * *

Boromir's tracks were too easy for her to follow. The big man blundered through the undergrowth with abandon, crushing leaves and snapping branches wherever he went. She spotted him after a few minutes of walking, noting his rich purple shirt against the gray-green world of Lothlorien. He stared at the river, sitting on a stone that jutted out over the water. The far bank seemed made of shadows and, though they were deep in Elvish country, Sakhra did not let her guard drop.

"I could smell you coming," Boromir said aloud, not bothering to look at her. His voice trembled and for a brief moment, Sakhra wondered if she was right to pursue him. "Haradrim have a distinct scent."

She made sure to keep her distant, giving the man the space he so sorely needed. "Sandgrass," she murmured, knowing what he meant. "It's in the tattoo ink, though most don't notice. I suppose you fought enough of us to learn to recognize the smell."

"I am a soldier. Knowing my enemy wins battles and saves lives." Finally, he looked over his shoulder. To his surprise, he felt some relief at the sight of her. Without her leathers or her sword, with her hair loose, she was not so threatening as usual. He could almost forget her heritage and her history. "I made a study of the Haradrim in my youth, when the tribes used to cross the Harnen in great numbers."

Slowly, she took a seat on the rock, letting her legs dangle over the edge. "I remember those days. I was just a girl in Umbar, but I remember. Mumakil hordes attacked Gondor, without mercy." To her dismay, she felt herself flush and wished for her veil again. "Haradrim do not fight with honor."

"No, they do not," Boromir replied, his voice thick and low. "But then, men are not honorable to begin with."

Her eyes met his sharply and she saw the anguish there, the tortured soul he was trying so hard to hide. "You cannot mean yourself, Boromir."

Though he never spoke the words, she heard them clearly. _I do._

"I can feel my control slipping away," he murmured, turning back to the river. He tossed a few smooth stones into the water, watching them sink into darkness. "I was a good man before this Quest, a son of Gondor."

"You are _still _a good man," she said firmly. "And in that is your weakness. And mine." Next to her, he tensed, muscles straining against skin and silk. "We are human. The Ring affects us first. Even Aragorn would be hard pressed to turn from it, should Frodo offer. It wears on me as well, like a stone in my heart." The words were difficult to say, but for Boromir's sake, she forced them out. "You are not alone in your struggle, Boromir."

"But I am the farthest gone. It bewitches me with every passing hour, pulling me closer to a person I cannot become." He shook his head, his bronze hair pale in the moonlight. _Like a crown_, she thought. _One day when Aragorn is king, Boromir will be his steward, and all this will be so far behind us. _

"You still have the strength to turn away, Sakhra," the Gondorian murmured. "I fear I do not."

In that moment, she wanted so much to embrace him. In Harad, it would even be expected, but she was no quite sure how Boromir would take the gesture. Instead, she settled for a hand on his arm, her grip firm as she tried to pull him back from the dark ledge.

"You think you are so far gone, Boromir?" she breathed, forcing him to look at her. Slowly, she rolled up the sleeves of her tunic, revealing the snake-like lines that spelled her name and deeds, her whole life. "Look where I have been. Look at what I was."

His eyes grew round, examining the tattoos with a mixture of awe and fear. Scorpions, snakes, curling bones and black wings, words in harsh Haradaic, the symbols for bravery, stealth, death, blood, the triple band of the Hasharin, and pearly scars, it was all there for him to see. Her skin crawled beneath his gaze but she forced herself to stay still, to let him look. If it would save Boromir and preserve the Fellowship, she would do it a hundred times.

"I killed my first at fourteen. I put a snake in a man's shoe and I watched the venom take him," she murmured, her mind protesting at the dark memory. Back then, she was proud of herself. Now she felt only shame. "Since that day I've filled more contracts than I can count and killed more than I care to know. I was a murderer, a liar, a thief, a traitor, the worst of every kind. You know what I was, you know where I come from, and you know I turned away."

"You covet Sauron's Ring – I was Sauron's own blade from time to time," she said harshly, trying to make him see. "So do not tell me you are not strong enough to resist."

She expected him to hate her again, to judge her as she deserved to be judged, but instead of pulling away, Boromir leaned forward. Their shoulders brushed and a warmth spread from him, chasing away the cold. He sighed deep in his broad chest and to her surprise, he nodded.

"You're right. I can be strong." He shifted, pulling something into his lap – a white horn edged with gold. _The Horn of Gondor. _"I will be strong, for all our sakes."

"That's all I ask," she replied, nudging him a little. "Not too much, is it?"

Boromir's laugh was deep and hardy, shaking the air. "Nothing at all, my friend. So long as you promise to do the same."

_That is a promise I cannot make_, Sakhra thought. She learned long ago never to make promises she couldn't keep. But for Boromir, she forced a smile. "I promise," she lied, letting him pull her to her feet.

* * *

The next morning, it was the birds that woke her. White and beautiful and almost as melodic as elves, the creatures serenaded the Fellowship from every treetop. Sakhra wondered if Galadriel sent them herself, some kind of avian alarm to rouse them.

Legolas was already awake and packed, his bow slung over his shoulder once more. He perched on the roots of a great tree, marveling at the feel of the bark beneath his fingertips. The tree's life pulsed in time with his heart, calming him before they would set out again. Sakhra noted his strange ritual with narrowed eyes. _Elves_, she thought with a shake of her head. It was nothing for her to pack up, now well-accustomed to being on the move. The others were not so quick, especially Gimli who snored right through the birdsong.

She toed him with her boot, nudging the dwarf's head. In return, he snorted awake, one hand reaching for his axe.

"Careful, Gimli, I don't fancy losing a leg so early in the day," she chuckled, before moving on to help rouse the hobbits. They were awake but loathe to leave their blankets. Only Frodo prepared himself in a timely manner, though he was strangely quiet and thoughtful, even for him.

Sakhra wanted to press the hobbit, to inquire after the shadowed look in his eye, but she kept her distance. The infernal thing around his neck was always waiting, beckoning to her like an old, seductive friend. _I will be strong_, she told herself, remembering her conversation with Boromir. The man seemed to be thinking the same, as he busied himself with checking and re-checking his weapons. No matter how foolish he looked, she was glad to see him making such an effort.

"You do not sleep much," Aragorn murmured, appearing out of the trees behind her. He had been up for hours, having already taken counsel with Celeborn and Haldir.

"Neither do you," she replied, crossing her arms at what felt like an accusation. "I assure you, I am well rested."

"Your rest is not what concerns me." His eyes flashed at Legolas, still bent over the tree, and Sakhra followed his gaze.

Confusion clouded her eyes. "Speak plainly, Aragorn, if you have something important to say."

His jaw tightened. This was not the place for the words he wanted to say, especially with the rest of the Fellowship so near. He hoped Sakhra would understand but…_She has no idea what I mean._ But then a darker thought came to him. _Or she does. She knows and does not care._

At the sound of sharp, low voices, Legolas turned over his shoulder, only to see Aragorn and Sakhra with their heads bent together. Just by the tight set of her shoulders, her crossed arms, he knew it was a conversation she did not enjoy. _Much like what I suffered last night._ Deep in his bones, he shivered. _Aragorn had better mind what he says to her. _

But he had no reason to fear. Haldir appeared on the edge of their camp, a few of his scouts in tow, before Aragorn could press her further. In the morning sun, the Marchwarden of Lothlorien seemed crowned with light, but his eyes were hard and dark. To an outsider, he would seem cold, hostile even, but Legolas understood. Haldir wanted nothing more than to protect his Lady and her realm, and that was an honorable endeavor.

"My Lady is waiting for you by the river," he said, addressing them all with a sweep of his eyes.

Sakhra was not so understanding of elves and their mannerisms. She followed begrudgingly, falling back to walk with Gimli, the only other companion who did not seem entirely bewitched. Though Lothlorien was beautiful, something about it made her uneasy, even sad. And sadness was an emotion she could not afford. She told herself it was Gandalf affecting her so, the memory of the wizard in every swirling cloak and every gray tree. But deep in her heart, she knew the reason. Though she had never been to Lothlorien before, she knew it felt empty, smaller, less grand than it once was. Abandoned homes and overgrown paths dotted the forest, speaking of a fuller time. _They are leaving. The elves are leaving._

Her eyes fell on blonde hair, on an intricate braid she had come to know so well these past few months. _They are leaving_ echoed again, hollow words to shiver her bones.

Elves came to see them pass, lining the way to the Great River. All of them were ghostly and fair, like white statues in still salute. They look neither happy nor sad to see them go, but Sakhra saw the light in their eyes. They were _proud_.

"I apologize for my behavior earlier." Haldir's voice caught her off guard. _I am growing tired of elves sneaking up on me_, she thought with an inner smirk. "You gave me no cause to mistrust you."

Sakhra couldn't help but snort, turning to face the Marchwarden as he appeared next to her. Gimli grumbled by her side, muttering in Khuzdul, but quieted him with a firm hand. Slowly, Sakhra shifted to match Haldir's pace, breaking off a little from their procession.

"I gave you great cause," she said, gesturing to herself. With her jacket securely back on, the tattoos were hidden again, but the marks were still there. "I look like a Hasharin assassin and I travel with the Ring of Power. You were allowed your precautions."

Haldir nodded a little, his cold façade melting. "Very well, but I still wish to apologize."

"Accepted," she said, bowing her head in Haradrim custom. Haldir returned the gesture before putting a hand over his heart in the Elvish fashion. His smile was small but genuine, betraying the kind heart beneath his cold exterior. "Might I ask, Haldir, what convinced you to approach me?"

His smile faded a little and the elf glanced ahead, his eyes falling on Boromir's massive frame. "I was on patrol by the river last night," he muttered, dropping his voice so only she could hear. "I did not intend to overhear but -."

"Of course," she said, her teeth a bit on edge. "I suppose I should know better by now. You elves are always listening."

Haldir quirked an eyebrow at her, his mouth twisting into what might have been a smirk. "Does the Prince of Mirkwood bother you in the same manner?"

She shrugged, remembering their many conversations on the subject. He heard everything she said, to Gandalf, to Frodo, even to the ghosts in her dreams. She hated him for such intrusions, but knew he could hardly help himself. Besides, his keen senses had saved them time again. _I suppose it is an even trade. _"He tries not to, but privacy is hard to come by in such company."

Even without Legolas watching and listening, there were the hobbits. Inquisitive to a fault, they never gave her a moment's peace. Gimli was the same, always wanting to swap stories or regale her with tales of his people. Even when Boromir hated her, he was never far away, always glaring and taunting. And now Aragorn, once the only member of the Fellowship to give her some space, now he seemed to press in as well. But why, she could not say.

"You suit them," Haldir said suddenly, surveying her face as she thought of their mighty company. "At first glance, one might not think so but you do."

His words almost stopped her cold and she was suddenly aware of the sun on her face, warm and sweet through the trees. She looked down at her hands, at the tan skin and black tattoos and the pearly scars she so proudly bore. They were so different from the rest…but also the same. _We have journeyed the same paths, walked the same roads, faced the same darkness and felt the same loss._ _We are the same._

When she looked up, her smile bright as the stars, she expected to see Haldir, but he was gone again without so much as a sound. _Damn elves _she thought with a crooked grin.

Legolas did not bother to turn around, his keen ears listening to her footfalls as she fell back into line. He smiled to himself, turning over Haldir's words in his head. His thoughts drifted back to Rivendell, to the other Elven stronghold they once occupied. It was months ago that they sat in Elrond's council where he argued so fervently against her. Now he chuckled at the memory, thankful that no one heeded his words. _She suits us_.

The river came too quickly for them, winding through the trees like a thick silver ribbon. Sakhra could smell the water before she heard it, having the keen Haradrim sense for water. Usually it made her happy, but now the river made her sad. The river would take them away to more dangers and more darkness. _More death._ She eyed the white boats on the bank with narrowed eyes, breathing a small sigh of relief. _At least orcs won't attack us on the water._

Galadriel and her kin gathered at the bank, standing tall beneath a white canopy that glittered in the morning light. She smiled at them all, a radiant creature beyond reckoning, but this time there was no voice to echo in Sakhra's head. Next to her, Celeborn spread his arms wide, gesturing for them to come forward.

The nine did as the elf lord requested, turning to face him with trepidation. Even Aragorn seemed nervous in his presence and could not bear to look on Celeborn for long. Sakhra felt the same, having to avert her eyes from the light reflecting off his white robes.

"You nine are the champions of Middle-Earth, the bastions of light in this world slowly slipping into darkness. We give you what we can, in hopes that we can aid you in the Quest," he said, waving a hand at the white boats. There were parcels packed inside, filled with food, blankets, water skins, anything to help ease the journey. "The blessings and prayers of our people go with you into shadow."

When Sakhra felt smooth hands at her neck, she nearly spun, her hand reaching for her dagger. But these were elf hands, not orc, and she stilled herself long enough to feel smooth fabric fall around her shoulders. The elf behind her shifted, moving to fasten the jeweled clasp of her new cloak. Others did the same with the rest of the Fellowship, draping specially made cloaks around them. Sakhra marveled at the light but thick fabric, running the gray cloth between her fingers. It smelled of Lothlorien, of light and comfort.

"Never before have we clad strangers in the garb of our own people," Celeborn continued, smiling at little at Pippin who was already fussing with his clasp. "May these cloaks help shield you from unfriendly eyes."

A kingly gift, Legolas knew and he fought the urge to smile. Elven cloaks were imbued with magical properties, able to hide the wearer from danger in almost any circumstance. It comforted him to know his friends would now be shrouded as he was.

The sun strengthened through the trees, casting its light onto the river. It sparkled up at Galadriel, creating a halo around her. She motioned to her attendants, then took measured, silent steps towards the Fellowship.

"We gift you not only with these cloaks, but other items to help you on the road, for it is shaded with danger and much darkness." She moved to the far end of the line, Celeborn and her attendants at her side, to face Aragorn. To him she presented a curved Elven dagger, nearly a sword in itself. Celeborn murmured what sounded like a warning in Elvish, but Sakhra could not be sure. They moved swiftly, presenting each member with something beautiful and helpful. Boromir was given a golden belt to rival any treasure, while Merry and Pippin were presented with Elven knives. Sam received a coil of Elvish rope, something that would serve him well. Galadriel gave a strange vial to Frodo; it seemed to emit its own light and he took it gladly.

When she came to Legolas, he clenched a hand, restraining himself from leaping out to take the gift she held for him. "My gift for you, Legolas," she said, smiling at his obvious joy. "A bow of the Galadhrim, worthy of the skill of our woodland kin."

The bow she passed over was pale and delicately carved, the opposite of his dark Mirkwood bow. He took it reverently, running keen hands over the intricate woodwork and the bowstring. _He holds it like a lover_, Sakhra thought with an inner smirk. She made a note to tease him later.

But her internal laughter quickly died when Galadriel moved to face her. The elf woman's eyes glimmered like knowing jewels and there was a gray box in her hands, waiting to be opened.

"My lady," Sakhra murmured, bowing her head. "You owe no gift to me." It felt wrong to take from elves, from those who had already given so much.

But Galadriel only smiled. "Sakhra Terazon," she said aloud. Even her Haradaic sounded musical. Sakhra was only a little surprised to hear Galadriel use her new name; after all, she was in her head only hours ago. This was no great feat in comparison. "I offer no blade, for you have many and another would give you no comfort. Instead, I beg you take this token, an heirloom of the Elves of Beleriand. It was crafted beneath an eclipse, to forever hold the light of a veiled sky."

With pale hands, Galadriel opened the box to reveal a jewel no human had ever worn. It was a round stone that seemed to flicker in color, fading from the hazy pink of sunset to golden brown. _A veiled sun_. Though the stone was small, barely larger than her thumbnail, Sakhra felt herself catch her breath at the sight. She wanted to protest such a mighty gift but could not find it in her heart to do so. Galadriel smiled demurely, letting an attendant fasten the gold chain around Sakhra's neck. It hung perfectly, not too long or too short, and was easily hidden by her collar.

"_I give you strong will and cold water_," Sakhra said in Haradaic, echoing the greatest thanks her people had.

To her surprise, Galadriel responded in kind. "_I accept with open hands_," she said, her Haradaic perfect and flowing. "In Elvish, the stone is called _Morianar_. Keep it close and let it guide your heart."

Sakhra was so enraptured, so overwhelmed by Galadriel's gift, that she could only nod. Though she had seen and taken many treasures in her life, this was the greatest, and not only in beauty or worth. The stone sat against her skin, strangely cool and comforting beneath her collar. In that moment she knew it was her treasure, her greatest possession.

It distracted her so much that she barely heard Gimli make his strange request, asking for a golden hair from Galadriel's head. She didn't notice Galadriel give him three. And she certainly did not notice Legolas's piercing gaze as he stared at her necklace, blue eyes boring into the perfect stone.

_Morianar_, he thought. Something trembled in his heart, hearkening back to Galadriel's veiled warning before. _Morianar. Dark sun._

* * *

**__Blagh finally getting out of Lothlorien. Fair warning, The Two Towers is my favorite part of LotR (blame Rohan) so I intend to have a lot of fun once we get there. Follow the tumblr (thesandshadow dot tumblr) if you want updates and pics or just want to say hi!  
**


	13. Black As Oil

**Screee so close to the end of Fellowship! Suddenly I'm very enamored of everyone and loathe to let certain characters go. My poor bb Boromir especially. His character is just so tragic.  
**

**To my lovely reviewers and their critiques (honestly, critiques are my CRACK, I love them), fear not! The romance will progress slowly indeed. It was rather heavy-handed in the last few chapters, but only because the Fellowship got some respite in Lothlorien. Now that they're running around again, and will do so a lot more, the growing romance will have to compete with actual plot again. **

**Also, I'm SO HAPPY you guys like Sakhra! I love weaving her story into this and trust me, there's a lot more to come concerning her past. **

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**XIII - Black As Oil  
**

* * *

Even after long years away from the desert heat and the stinging sand winds, Sakhra could not help marveling at the sound and feel of water. She let a hand trail in the river, catching the cold, clear Anduin between her fingers as it rushed past. _So much of it_, she thought, _and so much more I can't see. _She fought back the urge to fill her water skin – _for it is quite full _– and simply enjoyed the touch of water.

Gray fish with scales like silver came up from the depths, nibbling at her gently. In Harad, fish were a delicacy unknown to many, particularly the desert tribes from which she hailed. Even at the guild in Umbar, the Hasharin ate fish sparingly, for the creatures of the southern sea made for salty, delicious meals. Instead, the long tables of the guild were usually full of dried jerky and harsh grain, to train the children against the joys of taste. But they served wine and sweet rum and biting white liquors like they were water, building up tolerances from a young age. A Hasharin child could out drink a full grown man, if given the chance. _And the talent served me many times_, Sakhra remembered, thinking on the many contracts that required it. Many a drunken man fell to her bright eyes and sharp blade.

When she came north, forsaking the guild and her last contract, it took long weeks, months even, for her tongue to adjust to the ways of the North. It was not the language that vexed her (for Sakhra had spent long hours perfecting the common tongue), but the food. Rich, heavy plates of meat and cheese and vegetables like she'd never known, so delicious they turned her stomach. Many a meal with Gandalf ended in trouble, until finally she adjusted. The food put weight back on her bones, filling out a figure that was once just hard muscle and bone. Five years in the North made her womanly, at least in form, but not at all weak. If anything, the soft life she lived now, at least in comparison to the Hasharin path, made her stronger. Every green field, every rain storm, every kind word reminded her of where she came from and how hard she would fight to never return.

But still she dreamed of the desert, of the hot night kissing her skin as she raced across the dunes. Her inky black sand mare was but a shadow, and she its sun. In those hours, she could forget her blades and her dark purpose. In those hours, she was just Sakhra of the desert, a woman with no name and no dreams to plague her.

There was nothing like the strange stars of Harad or the vibrant sounds of the cities. In her heart, she missed the good things she remembered – music, laughter, hidden smiles and stolen kisses, the rope-fire dance. _Farzane._ But those joys came with a price, and for all the music and all the stars, she would not pay it again.

When her thoughts cleared, she realized the fish were gone, washed away by the current, never to return. _The Anduin is swift and strong_, she thought, noting the speed at which they traveled. The banks passed by quickly as the river took their boats, bearing them further south with every passing moment. _Strong as the fate carrying us all, to whatever end._

If Legolas did not know her better, he would think her to be sleeping, so still she was with one hand in the water. _She would be speaking the names if she was asleep. _Her sleeve was wet to the elbow, but she did not seem to mind. He smirked at the sight and was reminded of himself in a forest, in constant reverence of nature. But this was different. He knew trees well, having lived beneath them his entire life. Water was still a mystery to her and a wonder so great she could not bear to let it go.

Occasionally he would dip his oar, steering the boat from a rock or into a swifter current. Boromir and Aragorn did the same, directing their own boats full of hobbits. His boat seemed to be a thing of mismatches, carrying an elf, a dwarf and a Haradrim woman. Gimli sat behind her and for once he was not arguing with the elf. Instead, he was deep in thought, occasionally dropping a hand to his pocket where Galadriel's gift lay.

"It is not like dwarves to be so bewitched by elves," Sakhra said, turning in her seat to face Gimli. When he didn't immediately answer, lost in thought, she flicked a spray of water at him. "Gimli, Son of Gloin, you are smitten!"

Something like a blustering cough erupted from beneath Gimli's beard and Sakhra did not miss his flush. She smiled, touching him on the shoulder as if to rouse him from his lovestruck stupor. "Legolas, the impossible has happened."

"Will they tell tales of this back in your mountain home?" Legolas prodded, joining in the fun. "Gimli and Galadriel – the names even fit together. It will be a beautiful song, I think, to be passed down through generations of dwarves."

"Dwarves do not become _smitten_," Gimli grumbled, stuffing his hand back into his pocket. "Not with elf queens, not with anyone."

Sakhra put a hand on her heart, drawing back in mock offense. "You wound me, Master Dwarf."

"Aye, my lady," Gimli chuckled in response. For a moment she could see the young dwarf he must've been, a cheeky flirt with sparkling eyes and a dashing smile. "I spoke poorly, for my heart belongs to none but you."

With a satisfied smirk, Sakhra turned back around to face the river. "As it should be," she chirped. But something tempered her voice, layered beneath the smiles and jibes. A hard weight that she hoped no one would notice.

Even though she tried to lose herself in the river, to let the water song and the wind take her mind, she felt her eyes stray. Past gray cloaks and white oars, over Aragorn's sharp shoulders and Sam's golden curls, to the little pale hobbit leading the way. His hand clenched under his cloak, holding on to the infernal thing that could be their doom. Though the wind was cold, she felt a heat deep inside, a curling flame to stir the blood and darken the heart.

_I will be strong._ Boromir's words sounded weak in her head, like wisps of string slowly being pulled apart. This time it was not the Gondorian's resolve weakening, but her own.

_The Ring is evil_, she told herself in a bitter, weak warning. _The Ring must be destroyed._

_The Ring is power_, another voice answered, a voice like her own but so much darker. _The Ring can do many things._

Briefly she thought of rope and the slaver's tent, of the sisters she lost to the harems, of the thousands who met similar fates in the blazing sand. _Are they still alive, bound in silken chains? _She could not remember their faces, not for all the jewels in the world, but she remembered their screams, she remembered the sound of her mother weeping in the night. She the crack of the whip that drove them away, the whip one day meant for her. It was a fate few slaves escaped, especially the girls. But for one curious night and one Hasharin elder, Sakhra knew she would've faced the harem tent like all the rest. Just the thought made her angry and weary and afraid, wondering at the wretched creature she might've been.

The vision struck her like lighting, blinding her to the river and the wind and the Company. It was sharp as daylight and real as anything she had ever known. She saw herself in the city of Umbar, a dark warrior on a dark horse surrounded by the banners of Gondor behind her, with Boromir the Steward and Aragorn the King on either side. Their blades were drawn, dripping blood, and sand fell from their hair. They entered the city as conquerors, as liberators, with an army of rescued slaves at their back. The harem girls killed their masters, choking them with their chains. Laborers put down the shovel to take up the sword. Her sisters, her mother, her father, their faces shadowed by memory, walked with them and all of Umbar was cleansed of its foul darkness. The guild itself burned in black fire, crumbling into the sea. She watched from a high tower, with the sun bright and warm on her face. And the Ring glittered on her finger, an emblem of her power, her greatness, her _mercy. _

But the Elven stone at her neck, the Morianar, was black as oil. And like the fires that consumed the guild, it _burned._

With that world faded, replaced by green banks and the blue river, Sakhra could not help but gasp. Sweat broke across her brow and she pulled her hand from the river, letting the cool water soothe her flaming skin. In her belly, sickness roiled, and the Morianar still felt hot to the touch.

_Gandalf, _she screamed in her head, trying her best not to weep at her weakness. _Ekelled, why did you fall? Why did you leave me to face this path alone?_

Gimli was once again in his smitten thoughts, but Legolas was far from it. He watched her shoulders rise and fall with narrowed eyes, listening to her heavy breaths and quick pulse. When she put a hand over her eyes, albeit briefly, he could not hold his tongue any longer.

"Sakhra?" he said, his voice low and gentle. It was the voice he used with the woodland creatures, spooked deer or lone wolves, to calm and placate.

But she did not turn, unable to meet his gaze. And that frightened him more than anything else.

* * *

The river made their journey swift and safe, protecting them from whatever prowled the banks of the Anduin. Aragorn was careful, making camp within inches of the lapping water, and even made sure the hobbits slept in the boats. Should an orc pack descend, it would be nothing at all to push them into the river, protecting them from all but arrows. But even though they grew farther from Lothlorien and deeper into the unfettered wild, nothing assuaged them. It was almost like the days before Moria, when they traveled south along the mountains, and their only troubles were birds and gamy rabbits.

_But those days are long gone_, Aragorn thought grimly, noting the conspicuous absence of a gray cloak and pointed hat. If Gandalf had been with them, their fire would be bright and warm. Frodo would smile, Pippin would be lively once more and Sakhra would joke and tease as she once did. The Hasharina had been quiet since they left Lothlorien, since he tried to confront her. Aragorn did not do so again, not even when they crept into the woods together to hunt. _She has done as I wished_, he knew, noting how she barely spoke to Legolas. _And more_. For her coldness extended not only to the Prince of Mirkwood, but to the hobbits as well, particularly Frodo, and even Gimli. He half-expected her to don her veil again, so reserved she had become. _It is Gandalf that plagues her_, he believed, and that was not entirely untrue.

Though Boromir seemed a brute, he understood more than others knew, and he perceived Sakhra's own inner anguish better than the others. When she boated with him after their first day on the river, switching places with Pippin, only Legolas felt rankled. The Gondorian had been her enemy at the beginning and, though he was glad to see their friendship grow, it made him strangely uneasy. They often talked together, gathering firewood or walking the banks after dinner, and he had to restrain himself from listening to their conversation. _She would not like it_, he knew, and he did not want to give her another reason to ignore him.

Wood-elves were an open people, accustomed to speaking plainly on their thoughts and feelings, even to a fault some would say. If this had been Mirkwood, if Sakhra had been his own kin, he would've questioned her outright, but she was neither. Secrets and shaded thoughts were her own language, and it was one he did not understand.

But when the Falls of Rauros drew near, the roar of them threatening to drown out all else, Legolas pushed all thoughts of Sakhra from his mind. Another shadow came to cloud his thoughts, a dark weight that plagued him even beneath the sun and trees. _Something is coming_, he knew. And judging by the sharpness in Aragorn's eyes, he was not alone in the thought.

It was midday when they put in at the white posts, tying their boats up just beyond the reach of the falls. Their journey downriver was almost done and, though the river gave them safety, Sakhra was eager to have her feet on the ground again. As mesmerizing as the water was, she did not trust it. It was too cold and wet and deep – who knows what the mirrored surface hid?

And what she _could_ see in the water, she did not like. _My reflection. _Though their time in Lothlorien had rested her, the bruise like circles beneath her eyes had quickly returned. Once golden skin took on a pale, sickly pallor as her color leeched away. And her eyes – she could not look into them long. _So dark, darker even then before, when I was a twisted, terrible thing. What does that say about me now?_

"We cross at nightfall," Aragorn spoke aloud, helping Frodo and Sam from the boat. He gestured to the eastern shore, where the shadows were already long despite the hour.

_Nightfall? _Such a plan did not sit well with Sakhra, who knew that orcs would be swarming in the darkness. _But who am I to question a ranger and a future king to boot? I am no one._

_No_, said the voice she tried so hard to ignore. _You are the Sand Shadow, the Scorpion Queen_. Even her mind hesitated to say the words, the name she had tried so hard to lose. _Mal Mara, Death's Kiss._ _A slave and an assassin and a traitor to your own kind, a woman with no one and nothing but dark deeds and a thirsty blade._

"Sakhra."

The little voice made her turn, her movement sharp and quick as a snakes. But instead of a enemy, she found blue eyes staring up at her. _Frodo. Worse than any orc._ With great effort, she bit back the urge to run away and forced a smile, for the hobbit's sake.

"Yes, Frodo?" she said, willing the tightness from her voice.

In response, he held out his hand further. She finally realized he was holding a little bowl of stew, with a bit of Elven lembas floating in the middle. "You should eat," Frodo said quietly, putting a small hand on her arm.

"I thought I was supposed to be minding you," she replied, taking the bowl from him. "Not the other way around."

It cheered Frodo to hear her jokes and he brightened. But Sakhra couldn't help but notice the darkness in his own eyes – not so bad as hers, but there all the same. She wanted to ask after his well-being, but worried that talk of the Ring might plunge her back into that terrible vision. So instead, she forced a spoonful of stew into her mouth. _Sam's doing_, she knew, tasting the spices.

Even though she ate, Frodo lingered, his gaze flickering to the trees of the far bank. "Not so far now," he murmured and she knew what he thought of.

"But still a long way to go," she said, remembering the path that lay before them. The closer they grew to Mordor and the South, the more familiar the land became. "And you are with the Company, Frodo, until the very end."

She expected him to smile at that, but if anything, his sorrow seemed to grow. With a swish of his gray cloak, the hobbit turned and shuffled away, back to their meager camp. Months ago, Sakhra would've followed, to distract Frodo with her tales or teasing, but not today. _I must be strong._

After finished the stew, she washed the bowl in the river, and this time it held no wonder. Her attention was elsewhere, on Legolas and Aragorn standing with their heads close together, deep in conversation. The elf argued sharply, his brows furrowed in determination, but Aragorn was resolute as ever.

"A shadow and a threat has been growing in my head," he said, his words barely audible. But Sakhra angled herself well, into the slight breeze that carried his voice. "Something draws near. I can feel it."

_A shadow and a threat._ She wondered what that could mean, how strong the senses of elves really were. Bleakly, she entertained the idea that the shadow was herself, the threat her own blade. _The Ring calls and if something does not change soon, I will answer._

_You would leave us so willingly?_ His voice in Lothlorien echoed to her out of memory. It seemed years away, though it was little more than a week ago.

_If it meant aiding the quest._ She meant it then, she meant it with all her heart. The time to act on those words would come, and come soon. _I must be strong._ And sometimes being strong meant knowing when to let go.

Despite their hours of talk, their time on the river and in each others' company, Sakhra's own shadow had blinded her. Another would've seen the signs in Boromir, the sweat on his brow or the nervous wringing of his hands. The way his eyes flickered to Frodo, always Frodo. His mind was in Gondor, in his own visions of a city rescued from darkness by a gleaming band of gold. He felt his strength fail, and Sakhra did not see the signs.

"Where's Frodo?" Merry suddenly said, looking sharply over the bank.

Sakhra vaulted to her feet, eyes already wide and searching. Her pulse pounded in her hears like the rush of drums, a sound like nothing else. When her eyes fell on Boromir's shield, alone in the crook of a tree, it was the one sign she could not ignore.

_I must be strong._

Aragorn was crashing through the trees before she could blink, all his quick and quiet ways gone in his desperation. She did not miss his hand stray to his sword hilt, nor did she question why. _At best, Boromir will be forced from us_, she knew, _and at worst…_

_At worst, Aragorn will carry another death on his shoulders._

In that instant, she prayed to her gods of sand and stars, of war and wisdom, begging them for Boromir's sanity and his life. _And I will go with him. I will leave as he does, and with it aid the quest more than I ever could from within._

"Sam, douse the fire," Legolas said swiftly, even has he leapt up onto a rock. He stared after Aragorn, though he was long gone from mortal flight.

Too worried to argue, Sam poured a bowl of water over the fire, to Merry's great dismay. His tomatoes would have to go cold. Despite Merry's grumbling and the sizzle of a dying fire, Sakhra realized it was oddly quiet.

She cocked her head, sparing a glance for the far bank. Across the water, birds chirped and wind stirred the leaves…_but not so hear. _"Do you hear it, Legolas?" she said, speaking directly to him for the first time in days.

He did not have to ask to know she meant nothing. "I do." The graveness in his voice even gave Gimli pause.

"What is it?" Sam demanded, the little fire kindling deep inside. "What's coming?"

When the wind shifted, she caught the smell. Blood, rancid meat, _death._ Her sword sang as she pulled it from its sheath and Legolas already had an arrow on the string. "Into the boats," she began, moving to shove the hobbits into the safety of the river. "Quickly, paddle out-."

"Not without Mr. Frodo!" Sam shouted back, to her dismay. The loyalty she admired so much in him now became a curse. The other hobbits were quick to rally to Sam's side, drawing their little swords.

Gimli raised his axe, letting the edge catch the light. "We'll bring him, mark my words," he growled. "Stay back, young hobbits. There's warrior work to be done here."

"_Please_, Sam," Sakhra tried once more, knowing if she could convince him, the others would follow. But the hobbit was made of stronger stuff, and he was the first to bolt into the trees.

But not the last.

* * *

**ROHAN IS COMING.  
**

**And to everyone following/checking out the tumblr, YOU ARE BLESSED ANGELS. More Haradrim fashion/photos will come, as requested. And feel free to submit/interact! I love hearing from you guys!**


	14. Breaking

**GAME OF THRONES IS BACK. Ahem, sorry. Just a little carried away. Thanks for all the love guys! Enjoy!  
**

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**XIV - Breaking  
**

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The trees dappled the ground with light and shadow and lay thick across the hilly ground. Roots and rocks would make sure footing hard for them, and their enemies. _Good, _Sakhra thought as they ascended. _Let them fall. _Her eyes darted across the landscape, making note of the steep incline, the leafy ground, low-lying branches and brambles, and thethe old Gondorian ruins pushing up through the undergrowth. Another would see them as obstacles, obstructions, but not the Hasharina. Together with the gray cloak of Lorien, she would be but a shadow here, a blade between the branches, a knife in green darkness.

She could feel Merry and Pippin at her heels, eager but afraid. Sam was still well ahead, shouting out for his master, searching every hollow. This place was more like hobbit country than she knew and try as she might, Sam soon slipped out of her sight.

"Sam!" she called, trying to draw him back, but the hobbit was long gone.

The clang of swords and armor filtered through the trees, an unearthly shatter of metal to chill the blood. _So many_, she knew, hearing the clank of dozens of armored feet. But there was no time to think of such things. No time at all.

Without thought, her hands closed on Merry's collar and she tossed him bodily into a shadowed nook between two fallen trees. Pippin followed after, protesting heavily, but one glare from the Hasharina silenced them both.

"Do not move from this place," she hissed, pushing as much menace as she could into the words. "Keep up your hoods, use the cloaks. _Do not move_."

Against such an order, they could only nod.

Legolas was already halfway up the hill, sprinting over the rocks like a bird through air. The woods were his domain and it showed; bushes and branches seemed to part, allowing him to pass unobstructed. They sensed the elf's desperation and fear, for he too heard the march of many dark feet and knew his friend faced them alone.

Despite his stocky stature, Gimli was not far behind, his axe spinning through the air. Sakhra followed him closely, her grip tight on her blade. All thoughts of running, of abandoning the Fellowship, were gone from her mind. Now her focus heightened, narrowing the world to only what she needed to see.

And what she saw was terrible.

They crested the hill one after the other, in a flurry of blades, axes and arrows. The ruins of Amon Hen, old cracked stone and fallen statues, littered the ground. And amongst the stonework, black figures, taller than a man, stronger than an orc, quicker than goblins – foul creatures the like of which none had ever seen before. White hand prints marked their dark skin – the white hand of Saruman. Their blades were heavy, sharp and cruel, swinging in wide arcs, trying to find home in manflesh.

Aragorn kept them at bay as best he could, holding back a host no man could face alone. They screamed and growled, in a strange mix of Orcish and the common tongue. Sakhra understood the words plainly and shivered at what they said.

"Find the Halfling! Find the Halfling!"

_Frodo._

In Moria, they had Gandalf. In Moria, they faced orcs in a bottleneck. In Moria, they could run. _Now we must fight._ With a roar of her own, she charged into the fray.

Legolas's bow sang, peppering the black horde with arrows faster than the eye could see. Many fell and more surged forward, into Aragorn's sword, Gimli's axe and Sakhra's flashing blade. But the hill was open ground, a clearing where they would be easily surrounded – and more of the beasts were already breaking off, escaping down the hill to pursue their charges. This they could not allow by any means.

"Aragorn, go!" Legolas shouted, even while ducking under a cruel black sword. He hooked his foot, throwing the beast over his shoulder, sending it crashing into the underbrush. Before it could rise again, Sakhra finished the job, slicing through its neck without a word. Blood spattered across her boots, the first of more to come.

Isildur's heir blazed by her in a frenzy, his cloak snapping as he disappeared into the trees. The clang of swords followed him, echoing up the hill. _There are more, more than we imagined there could be._ And more still came, charging up and over the hill in a foul black tide that they could not hold back. Especially not on such open ground.

Her blade hissed through the air, cleaving bone, buying her enough space to push back. "Down the hill, into the trees," she yelled over the din, and the elf and dwarf heard her clearly. One more arrow, one more swing of the axe, and they turned to follow her, dashing into down into the brush.

Now the landscape was on their side, slowing the beasts, making them stumble. Sakhra used every bit of it to her advantage, spinning around trunks and branches with all the old tricks she learned so long ago. Her feet connected with skull, cracking bone against bark, even while her hands tossed up dirt, creating a dusky cloud around her. The creatures pressed in, eager for the kill, but she was not so easily brought down. Before she knew it, the dagger was in her other hand, biting out between armor plates, drawing black blood wherever it could. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw blonde hair flashing in the sunlight, twisting and turning in blistering motion. Legolas had drawn his own blades, two long white knives, and made quick work of the foes around him. She felt a comfort watching the elf, knowing he would fell all that came close. Gimli's own axe turned black with blood, breaking and cleaving in equal measure. The creatures fell around him like wheat from the scythe, many of them writhing in pain, clutching at shattered ribs and open bellies.

More fell, but more came. More and more and more. So many that even the shadows, even the cloak, even her Hasharin training could not protect her.

A black iron sword grazed her cheek, drawing hot blood, and a heavy shield hit her shoulder. She dropped to a knee, nearly losing her sword in the process. Despite the pain, she would not cry out. _That will be a bruise to remember._ When a bloody hand gripped her braid, winding its fingers through her hair, she did not have time to scream.

"A woman, a fine prize," it growled in wretched Orcish. The stink of its breath was enough to make lesser men wretch. Instead, the Hasharina slammed her head into his. It stumbled, but held firm. "Haradrim whore!" it screamed, yanking at her scalp.

When the axe shattered its spine, the beast spoke no more, and she fell from its grasp. Gimli spared her a tiny nod, the only comfort he could, before falling back into rhythm. This was not the first time death had come so close to her and she shrugged it off, tucking away the fear for another day. Her blade spun again, finding home in the steadily thinning horde.

From the hill above, Legolas turned away, aiming his bow at another beast. _I was too slow_, he cursed to himself. His anger poured into the arrow and the strength of it carried the shaft right through a black neck. _She needed me and I was too slow._

A horn blast silenced his thoughts and rekindled Sakhra's fear, her heart almost bursting with the sensation. "The Horn of Gondor!" Legolas cried aloud, turning towards the sound.

Another blast shook the trees and her bones. _He think he calls for help_, she thought. But looking through the trees, at the armored shadows pouring down the hill, she realized the horn had another affect. _It calls them down upon him. _

"Boromir," she murmured, her mind flashing to the Gondorian captain and his sword. _He is a warrior tried and true, worth twenty of these foul creatures_, but it was no comfort to her.

Her eyes caught another shadow through the trees, leaping over bush and branch, charging towards the horn blast. _Aragorn_, she knew, catching sight of his longsword flashing through the trees. _The king will save his steward._

Sakhra did her best to follow, moving steadily through the throng of beasts. While her sword cut them down, her footwork did more harm than anything else. With such quick feet, such sure footing over uneven ground, it was all too easy to trip up the creatures. A few sharp turns, a spin or two and they went sprawling, sliding through the leaves and undergrowth. That was all Legolas needed to pick them off with his deadly arrows. Gimli was there too, biting out with his axe at every turn.

They fell into this rhythm easily, like it was planned and practiced long ago. In truth, it was the heat of battle that brought this out, using their strengths to compliment each other and form a lethal trio of warriors. When Sakhra stumbled, Legolas was there. When Legolas missed his mark, Gimli was there. And when Gimli's arm tired, just for a moment, Sakhra was there. If a bard had been witness to this dance of death in the trees of Amon Hen, there would be a great song for decades to come. Though there were only the trees and the dying beasts and each other, the song sang in their blood, pounding with the pulse of three likened hearts.

The last creature they could see fell to Gimli's axe, his head cloven in two, and for a moment, Sakhra could not believe it was the end. She panted, gasping at fresh air now tainted with blood, but nothing had ever tasted so sweet. _I am alive._

The Prince of Mirkwood was not so transfixed, having battled hosts many times before. Survival was easier for him to understand. He touched her on the shoulder, just for a moment, letting her know their job was not yet done. "Come," he murmured, before setting off through the trees. Already he could hear steel on iron, Aragorn's sword against another's. Battle still raged.

Sakhra tried her best to stay on his heels, but he was an elf and no matter how much training she received, she could never best him over ground. But her nose, that was another matter. Above all things, a Hasharin knows the smell of blood. And even against the stench of bleeding beasts, Sakhra caught the hint of man. His blood was fresh and flowing – and dying. Without thought, she changed course, running from the sounds of battle to the scent of death.

He lay slumped against a tree, surrounded by dead, black bodies like fallen trees. There were arrows in him, three thick arrows that would fell a troll, and blood stained through his jerkin. _His party shirt is ruined_, she thought dimly, remembering the jibe spoken long ago. How she wished for those days, when Boromir hated her. That was a thousand times better than this.

Her knees hit the dirt next to him, barely inches from his massive, shuddering frame. "Boromir," she said, using all the strength she had to keep her voice from shaking. And so, she had no more strength to stop the tears. For another, she might have lied, telling him it would be all right, that his wounds were few, that he would _live._ But one look told her that would do no good at all. _A pierced lung and stomach, with another arrow in the flesh between. He will not last the hour._ Briefly she entertained the idea of packing dirt into his wounds, if only to stop the bleeding, if only to buy a few more moments of life. But Boromir caught her hand and in his eyes was a knowing look: his time had come.

Even in death, he managed to smile at her. "Look at this, a Haradrim weeping over a dying captain of Gondor." His voice was weak and heavy, choked with blood. She could see it staining his teeth, robbing him of a grin in these last moments.

"Look at this, a captain of Gondor submitting so easily to death," she replied, brushing away a tear with the back of her hand. "I thought you were stronger than this."

Despite the smirk, his eyes darkened. "I was not strong enough, Sakhra," he murmured, with so much shame she thought she felt her heart break. "I went after Frodo."

"It was only a matter of time," she breathed. She tightened her grip on his hand and the weakness she felt made her tremble. "For both of us."

His stare, full of regret, pain, anger, shame and even accusation, was almost too much for her to bear. _He is a son of the Steward, a good man, of honor and strength. It should be me against this tree. How can I deserve life when this man is dead?_ Boromir seemed to understand her thoughts, reading them plainly in her eyes. With all the strength he had left, he squeezed her hand.

"You must go on," he said, with all the resolve of a king. "_Terazon_. That is your name, and you have earned it."

Sunlight fell on his hair, turning it bronze and gold like a crown. The birdsong returned, haunting through the trees, and she heard steady footsteps behind her. _The battle is won, so why do I feel like we've lost? _When she felt a hand on her shoulder, bruised and bleeding, she knew it was her time as well. Briefly, she murmured a Haradaic prayer, a call to the gods to watch over Boromir, to protect him even in death. Her hand grazed his cheek and then she stood, pulling away, never to see or hear him speak again.

Her actions were mechanical, detached and cold as she went through the motions. She wiped her sword on the grass, cleaning it as best she could, before attending to her dagger. Her leathers came next, then her boots. The shoulder would be sore for a few days and the cut on her cheek would need cleaning, but nothing else seemed amiss. _Nothing but the dead friend behind me._

Gandalf's death still struck her, shadowing her heart with fear and sorrow, but this was another feeling. Boromir was her friend in the end, but not a guide, not a father-figure, not her rock of comfort in a stormy world. _So why does it hurt so much?_

With a shiver, she realized. _I am Boromir, and he is me. He fell to the Ring and died for it. He broke this company with his weakness. And if I stay, so will I. _

Through the trees, she glimpsed Sam and Frodo paddling across the river. Their white boat gleamed in the sunlight, betraying the darkness now spreading through her mind. The others would follow soon enough, collecting Merry and Pippin and piling into the remaining boats. The Quest would continue, through death and darkness and shadow. _But I will not._

Gimli's heaving breath, loud enough to hide his exhaustion and his pain, told her the others were not far behind. Whatever Aragorn murmured to Boromir, she could not hear, but when he stood again, she knew it was over. Boromir was dead.

The elf stood alone, again a picture of confusion. _He does not understand death,_ she thought. It was not the way of elves to die.

"We should bury him," Gimli growled, leaning on his axe like a walking stick. "It will not take long."

Sakhra trembled at the thought of digging such a grave, marking it with Boromir's shield and sword. Luckily, it was not a thing Aragorn would permit. He bent over Boromir's body, breaking off the arrows shafts with quick, pointed action.

"It will take long enough," he replied. As with Gandalf's passing, Aragorn had already rebuilt the wall around his heart. The time for grieving was done. "The beasts, the Uruk-Hai of Saruman, have taken Merry and Pippin."

Finally Sakhra turned, sucking in breath past clenched teeth. "Taken?" she snapped, feeling fire spread through her. In her head, a thousand terrible thoughts flashed past her eyes, all of the hobbits at the mercy of such rancid beasts. "To Isengard?"

"They believe they have the Ring," Legolas murmured, puzzling out the meaning. "And when Saruman finds they do not…" he trailed away, unable to continue.

Aragorn nodded, also unwilling to say the words. With a grunt, he put his arms around Boromir and lifted the man. Gimli was quick to take his feet, and together they carried the Gondorian down to the shore. Sakhra did not immediately follow, her eyes locked on the black spot where Boromir had died. His blood stained the ground, the only echo of a once great man brought so low.

Stooping, Legolas collected Boromir's sword, now lying alone amongst the leaves. "And now we are eight," he murmured. Again he wondered how much more the Fellowship would splinter, and who else would die before the end.

"Seven," she replied, the words escaping her before she could stop them.

The elf whirled, blue eyes wide in confusion. "What do you mean?"

_Speak plainly. That's all we have time for._ "Boromir was tempted before death, and it could have been the ending of us all." Hands shaking, she took the sword from Legolas. It felt heavy in her hands, with sorrow and with shame. "I will not let the same happen again."

"You would leave us so willingly?" he said, echoing the words spoken in Lothlorien. This time, it was more fear than shock poisoning his voice. _She cannot. We need her. She knows the paths, she is a good warrior, she is a comfort to us all._

"Merry and Pippin will die without aid. When you go on, I will go back."

His brow furrowed, reading between her words. "And you would die as well."

For that, she had only one answer. "Do not try and stop me."

_I wish I could_, he thought, feeling another pang of sorrow rise up in his heart. In the past months, Legolas had come to know Sakhra well, and so he knew that she would go where she wanted. No man and no danger would stop her, and to try would be an insult, not a comfort. "I will not," he said and it sounded so terribly final.

She turned away, stalking down to the shore with Boromir's sword laid across her palms. It was cold and wet, stained with black blood and fallen tears.

When she reached the shore, Aragorn and Gimli had already put Boromir in an empty boat, together with his shield and broken horn. Aragorn even removed his overcoat, revealing the wine-dark shirt beneath. If she squinted, she could not even see the bloodstains. _He could only be sleeping_, she mused, looking on his pale, still face. _Not asleep. Dead._ _And he needs only his sword now in this, his final journey._

Aragorn bent over the lip of the boat, staring intensely, committing the features of Boromir, son of Denethor, to his memory. He laid one last hand across Boromir's heart before pulling back, folding his arms against his chest. The vambraces taken from Boromir, hard brown leather inlaid with the white tree of Gondor, were worthy tokens, relics of the Steward's son. _So part of him will journey with me. Part of him will go on, and the Fellowship will survive._

"We need only his sword," he said, turning to watch Sakhra emerge from the trees. Legolas was not far behind, his fair features marred by grief, and he walked slowly, almost languidly, down to the shore. But she wasted no time at all, barely sparing a glance for the others, before laying the sword upon Boromir's chest. With shaking hands, she twisted his fingers, forcing them to grasp the sword one last time.

"He died a warrior," she murmured, pulling away like she was burned by the corpse. "And he is a warrior now, even in death."

It took all four of them to shove the boat back into the river, their shoulders to the white wood. As they heaved, sliding the boat back down the sand, each spoke a prayer in their own language, bidding good-bye to Boromir of Gondor. Khuzdul, Elvish, Haradaic, and Westron, but all meant the same. _Be at peace._

Sakhra felt Legolas at her shoulder, barely straining to move the boat. When it hit the water, she turned away, not wanting to be so close to him. He knew her plan and already she could feel his judgment. _He thinks I am abandoning them. He thinks I am a failure._

_She is too strong for her own good_, he thought, watching her busy herself at the last boat. _Too proud and too strong. She does not know that her heart will falter. She does not know her fate yet. _And above all, pounding like a drum, three words. _She cannot leave._

He moved swiftly, almost leaping towards her boat. With one great shove, he pushed it to the water's edge, pulling away her pack and supplies with it. _You will not leave. _

"We must hurry," he said, shouting over her to Aragorn and Gimli. "Frodo and Sam have already reached the eastern shore!"

Sakhra glared at him with all the fire she could muster, her scowl dark and terrible. "Legolas," she growled through clenched teeth. But he had no time to fear the Hasharina's wrath, turning to the Ranger with expectation.

Like Sakhra, there was hesitation in Aragorn, son of Arathorn. His eyes lingered on the distant shore, taking in what might be the last sight of Frodo and Sam. Their cloaks shrouded them in green shadow and they faded into the trees, leaving the Fellowship behind. The Ring went with them, passing beyond their aid – and their reach. Like Boromir, like Sakhra, Aragorn felt his own weakness, and it frightened him. There was only one thing he could do to stop it.

Slowly, surely, he slid his dagger back into its sheath and turned his back on the river, and the way to Mordor.

Legolas read his friend's expression plainly and his resolve faltered, falling into nothing. "You mean not to follow them," he said. It was not a question. _Too proud and too strong_ echoed in his head again, this time for the Dunedain.

"Frodo's fate is no longer in our hands," Aragorn replied, casting a glance at Sakhra. He noted how her shoulders drooped, releasing a tension she had long held at bay. Quickly, she nodded and he was glad of it. _At least she is on my side. At least I am not alone in this. _

Gimli was not so easily convinced, blustering and sputtering at the course of action. He was a dwarf and dwarves were not so easily turned aside in their endeavor. "Then it has all been in vain!" he swore, casting up his hands as he looked between them. "The Fellowship has failed."

_I swore to guide Frodo wherever he may go, and I was not strong enough to do so. _The thought made her insides burn like sun on sand, but she was glad of the pain. _I was strong enough to turn away. I suppose there is some comfort in that. _

"I would not say that, Gimli," she said, finally moving away from the riverbank to join the dwarf. "We did all we could for Frodo, and took him as far as our strength allowed. We taught him, guided him, aided him." The memory of their time on the road, the Ten Walkers, a Fellowship, tempered her words. "And he takes all we have given with them. All was not in vain."

Part of her scoffed at the words, even inside her own head. _Soft-hearted, foolish, that is what you are. Trying to put sweetness where none should be. _But that part of her was weakening by the moment, now that the Ring was out of sight. The Hasharin she was once was fading again, to be swallowed up by the shadows at the back of her mind.

"The Fellowship still stands," Aragorn agreed, putting one hand on Gimli's shoulder, the other on Legolas's arm. His eyes rested on Sakhra, communicating his thoughts with a glance. "If we hold true to each other."

"Merry and Pippin," she murmured, understanding his meaning. Next to her, Legolas straightened and she thought she saw the shadow of a smile. _Alone, it was a suicide mission. But together, we may yet have a chance._

He nodded, a sour look crossing his face. "I will not abandon them to torment and death. Not while we have strength left."

Despite her own misgivings and the prospect of facing down the Uruk-hai horde once more, Sakhra felt the old rumble deep in her chest. The sharp, almost sweet taste of blood lingered in the air, and for the Hasharina, it was a memory of old days past. For once, she did not shudder at the thought and reveled at it. _This is what I was made for. The pursuit, the kill. The hunt._ The stone around her neck seemed to agree, feeling cool against her sweat-drenched skin.

It was almost second nature to shed her unneeded belongings, leaving her blanket, pack and the old yew bow. Legolas's arrows were far better than hers and it would only slow her down. Now she was herself again, with nothing but her leathers, her dagger and the sword at her side. Already her toes wriggled in her boots, ready to be off and running. The others were just as eager, leaving all they could behind on the sand, relics of the Fellowship and brighter days.

Now they were the Hunters, with a new task ahead of them, and a new road to run.

Smirking, Aragorn tightened the ties on his jerkin and wiped the blood from his brow. "Let's hunt some orc."

It was to the sound of the crashing falls and Gimli's roar that they set off into the trees, four dark shadows shooting like arrows from the bow, ready to surmount any obstacle yet to come. And of those, there would be many.

* * *

**ROHAN ROHAN ROHAN.  
**

**To WolfKitty and Starfeeder24, the artists of wonderful fanart (I HAVE FANART?), you are amazing. Said art can be found on the tumblr (thesandshadow). Come say hi!**

**And now I put out an APB - MyCephei, one of my favorite reader/reviewers, I haven't heard from you in chapters! Would love to hear from you! (And if you've gone off the story for whatever reason, that's fine too, lol.)**


	15. The Hunt

**SORRY SORRY SORRY for the wait. As I mentioned on tumblr, things are moving for me career-wise, which means I've been in a ridiculous emotional state, both good and bad. I swear to GOD being on submission to publishers is the most painful thing a writer can do.  
**

**Also, I too miss Boromir.**

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**KIRAMIR**

**XV - The Hunt  
**

* * *

The pursuit took them over hill and rock, through glade and stream, until the sun set red and glaring into their eyes. The forests of the Anduin were thinning, steadily giving way to vast plains and grassland. Legolas frowned into the sun, his sharp eyes always trained on the horizon, looking for the black shadow that was their prey. But the Uruks were already beyond his sight, hiding behind the gentle rises ahead. Occasionally Aragorn paused to check their tracks but the markings were easy to read. Even Gimli could see the bent grass and broken branches cutting a path over the land, creating a trail to follow. Sakhra had her own skill at tracking and noted the footprints, looking for depressions a little deeper than the rest – _heavier. Carrying hobbits._

"They would not waste their strength carrying corpses," she breathed, brushing a hand against a deep footprint.

Over her shoulder, Aragorn nodded and set off at his unforgiving pace. Legolas was never far behind, breathing evenly, as if he was walking through a garden instead of sprinting across Middle-Earth. It set Sakhra's teeth on edge and though she was well accustomed to such activity, even she began to feel the sting. Her breath came harder as darkness fell and the stars became their guide through the night. Sweat broke across her brow despite the cold wind and she was reminded of days in the desert. Hot sun and scorching sand storms had not defeated her. _And neither will this_, she told herself, forcing a faster pace. The dwarf, somehow keeping step despite his shorter legs, heavy armor and natural disposition against speed, pushed her as well. _If he can keep up, so can I._

But the Hunters were not Uruk-hai running with the will of Saruman; they could not run forever. When the moon was high, Aragorn finally halted, breathing hard, his form almost invisible in the darkness. Gimli doubled, hands on his knees, too tired to complain. Sakhra herself fought the urge to collapse to the ground, if only to serve her pride. Only Legolas seemed untouched, still staring at the horizon, not a single golden hair out of place.

"Get some rest," the ranger said, surveying the land around them. It was a good place to stop, protected on two sides by thick bushes and a rocky overhang that blocked the worst of the wind. "We set out at first light."

"I'll take the watch," Legolas said evenly, smirking a little when he saw relief cross Sakhra's face. He knew even Aragorn would be loathe to stand guard tonight, while it would be nothing to do it himself.

"And I was just about to offer," Gimli crowed, settling against the grass. "Ah well."

"You can take tomorrow," Sakhra chuckled, settling down next to the dwarven furnace. Her desert blood was already running thin and without a fire it would be cold indeed. Gimli didn't respond to her jibe – he was already asleep, snoring softly, his beard rippling with every breath.

Smiling, Sakhra tucked her chin and drew her cloak around her arms. Darkness fell across her thoughts quickly, but one image stayed with her: Legolas, silhouetted against the moonlight, his gaze everywhere and nowhere, on her and on the horizon.

That night he heard the names again, repeating like a song or a prayer. And at the end of each verse, the one he had come to know so well. _Farzane. _She said it with clenched teeth and a furrowed brow, not like the others. This was not a wisp of words, a sorrowful memory like all the rest. No, Farzane was something else. _Someone else._

And to his great surprise - and his own grief - a name he recognized had joined the list. _Boromir._ When he heard the Gondorian's name pass from her lips, he had to stand and stare into the moon, trying to push away his own sorrow.

It seemed only half a heartbeat before Aragorn was shaking her shoulder, rousing her from sleep. Despite every bone in her body protesting, she rose, feeling all the aches and pains that seemed to spring up overnight. But she bit back a wince and prepared herself quickly, ready to be on the move again. She allowed herself a mouthful of water and a corner of lembas, enough to sustain a desert girl for many days. Gimli was a bit more greedy, gulping at water like a dwarf possessed.

"The Uruks will have stopped for a while the evening, if they're anything like orcs," she said, remembering her travels with such foul company. Orcs were fast and hardy, but quick to complain. "Even though they can travel in day light, they would not run into the sunset. It would blind them."

"Their nest should not be hard to spot," Legolas agreed from somewhere behind. Sakhra spun, only to find him crouched on the overhang, his eyes trained on the horizon again. _He knows I wanted to leave. He cannot even look at me. _"It will tell us how far ahead they are."

And then he sprung like an arrow from the bow, charging over the rolling slopes of grass. Aragorn was quick to follow, and then Sakhra and a grumbling Gimli. But they soon found their rhythm, and like she did in every battle, for every contract, Sakhra ignored her pain.

The nest lay some leagues ahead and Sakhra judged the Uruks to be more than a day away. _So fast_, she lamented, feeling her heart drop in her chest. _At this rate, we will never catch them._

Aragorn knew it too, though he did not voice the concern aloud. If he spoke the words, they might become true, and that he could not bear.

Sakhra remembered the tortures she witnessed in Harad, some at the end of her own blade. She knew the hobbits' fate would be far worse in the hands of the White Wizard, with all the evil of Mordor and Isengard to tear them apart. Worst of all, they would reveal the quest. How could they not, in the face of such pain? _And then the Ring will be lost. All will be lost. _

The farther they ran from Amon Hen, the more the Ring's call dimmed. It was still there, a shadow of a ghost, a call across a great gulf, but she could ignore it now. Even when she dreamed of the Ring, of creeping away from the Hunters and chasing down Frodo, she was able to push the thoughts away. Now she welcomed the faces of the many, even Farzane. She preferred those nightmares.

They did not stop that night, and no one complained. They knew what it would mean to stop.

The next day was harder, harder than she ever knew it could be, but they never slowed. Still Legolas had not looked at her and the anger she felt for him – _I was right to leave and he knows it_ – fueled her sprint. It was better than her water or the lembas. _I was not weak then, and I am not weak now._

She did not realize that, while the elf did not look upon her, he was always listening. He heard her breath hitch when they climbed a rise, or the way her heartbeat thrummed. The dwarf nearly drowned her out with his rattling wheeze, but he could still hear her beneath it all. Legolas thought he would lose her back at the river, before Aragorn decided to let Frodo go, and he did not intend to do so again.

Now the forest was gone entirely, revealing a harsh landscape strewn with boulders. It looked like a sea of grass, its waves frozen in time. There was little cover for the Uruks now and at the crest of every ridge, Legolas spotted them against the far horizon. They were a dark stain, a scourge, and he felt every blade of grass that bemoaned their coming.

Despite their sharp eyes, Sakhra and Aragorn were not so gifted as Legolas. They could not see the pack far head and so kept their eyes to the trail. Aragorn kept his wits about him, unaffected by the sprinting hunt, but Sakhra could not help but fade. She closed off her mind, retreating inward, even as her legs continued to run.

In the haze of her sprint, her mind wandered and her vision seemed to shift. The cloudy sky turned bright blue, the grasses gold, and she was no longer running. Now she sat astride her horse, the inky black sand-mare she knew like her own face. They raced across the dunes, cresting each ridge with hearts beating as one. The sky faded to black overhead, to the stars she had not seen in years, and it made her want to cry. Slowly, the stars seemed to move, sliding across the sky to take on familiar constellations. The horse was no more, disappearing on a cold breeze, and the sands grew into long grass. The sun rose red before them, and the stars of the West faded. This was not Harad anymore.

This was Rohan.

"Home of the horselords," Aragorn panted, allowing himself to pause atop the rise that marked the boundary of the country. This was a land he knew well, a land he had fought for many years past, and it gave him a small comfort. He shaded his eyes, hoping to see across the tawny landscape, but again, his human blood failed him.

Legolas was not so affected. He pranced from rock to rock, climbing to the top of a boulder, to allow himself better view. The Uruks were closer today, and it cheered him. "The Uruks turn northwest," he said, pointing out their path. His happiness quickly faded when he remembered their aim. "To Isengard."

"If they cross the Isen, they will be lost to us," Sakhra muttered, remembering her own journey through the Gap of Rohan. She had barely slipped past, despite her speedy horse and her own skill. Now the jaws of Saruman had grown wider and they threatened to swallow the hobbits whole.

"It will not come to that, lass," Gimli wheezed, leaning on his axe. "By Durin, I will not run for three days on end only to fail."

Aragorn tensed, ready to spring forward again, but something checked his pace. He dropped to a knee, eyes alight, and pawed at the muddy ground. Something green and silver winked in the morning light, greeting him like an old friend.

_A brooch of Lothlorien_, she knew, touching the identical clasp at her throat.

"Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall," Aragorn murmured, pulling the ornate piece from the ground. He turned it over in his hand, examining it thoroughly. Ripped fabric still clung to the silver in gray-green wisps.

"They know we're coming," Sakhra said, unable to stop a smile from rising. "They're leaving a trail."

Aragorn nodding, his own grin difficult to hide. "Less than a day ahead of us now. We're gaining on them."

"At this pace, we bloody better!" Gimli growled.

But his companions were already running, spurred on by the brooch and by new hope.

With a roar he charged after them, half rolling down the hill in pursuit, grumbling all the way.

* * *

It was midday when Legolas heard the hooves, a hundred strong and moving fast. The clink of armor and spears came next, paired with the shouts of menfolk.

"Riders," he said aloud, pointing at the top of a hill. He turned, expecting to see Aragorn at his side, in his usual place, but the man was already scrambling for cover in the rocks. Instead, Legolas's eyes met Sakhra's for the first time in days. He was stricken by the rage he saw there, but had no time to question her. She pushed past him, careful to keep her distance, following Gimli into hiding.

She kept her eyes fixed on the top of the hill, not allowing herself to watch Legolas deftly slip into the rocks. With his gray cloak and natural grace, he seemed made of wind. Then she heard the riders too and all thoughts of him were chased away.

Aragorn held his breath, his muscles tense and ready. If the riders were not friendly, if they were Men of Saruman or even Mordor, the Hunters would be hard-pressed in battle. But this was Rohan, a land long accustomed to war, with hardy soldiers to protect their borders. The riders must be the Rohirrim, and therefore they must be friends.

Friends or not, Sakhra reluctantly drew her veil into place. Riders would not look kindly on a woman in her position, and would not tolerate a Haradrim at all. Best disguise herself while she could, for she was not so long in friends as the ranger.

"Not that again," Gimli grumbled, nudging her with his shoulder, but she shook him off. As much as it pained him to see the veil, Legolas said nothing. He understood her trepidation, because he shared it.

The Rohirrim were not so kind to Elves as other Men of the West. They were a rougher people with rougher superstitions; they did not understand his kin or look upon them kindly.

When the first riders charged over the hill, their golden hair and green banners flying, Aragorn's suspicions were confirmed. There was no mistaking it – the Rohirrim had come. It was an entire eored by the looks of it, one hundred and twenty strong, led by a broad, tall man in red leather armor. His mount was gray and muscular, one of the finest war horses he'd ever seen. _Royalty_, Aragorn knew.

And with that, he stepped out from the rocks, shouting aloud for all to hear. "Riders of Rohan! What news from the Mark?"

Sakhra cringed at the sound, having hoped to avoid this all together. But she stepped out with the others, falling in at Aragorn's side. If she was not so apprehensive, she would have wondered at the movement of the eored, swarming like a school of fish. They turned as one and with remarkable skill, surrounded the Hunters.

Spears came next, jutting in at every angle, backing them into each other. Aragorn raised his hands, perplexed at such a greeting, and Sakhra resisted the urge to hit him over the head. Instead she pulled away from a sharp spear and found herself back to back with the elf, his hand grazing her own. Again she felt the shock of energy that passed between them, like in Lothlorien. Now she barely noticed it, more concerned with the spear in her face.

The leader of the eored rode forward through the throne, pushing his way towards them. He glared down from on high, his dark eyes flashing behind a helmet carved in the likeness of a horse. In fact, everything from his sword hilt to his armor seemed equine in nature. He even breathed like a horse, with heavy, hard pants. _He must smell like horse too_, Sakhra thought, resisting the urge to turn away. Luckily, he did not scrutinize her so closely, his eyes fixed on Legolas.

"What business does an elf, two men and a dwarf have in the Riddermark?" he demanded, letting his horse stomp inches from their feet. No one flinched. "Speak quickly!"

Gimli rolled his shoulders and smoothed his beard, an annoyed look on his face. "Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine," he replied. Though his tone was agreeable, his more aggressive intention was plain.

The rider responded in kind, almost leaping from his horse. His hand grazed his sword and Sakhra did the same, reaching for her dagger beneath her cloak. Gimli was not so affected, even planting his axe against the ground in a picture of leisure.

"I would cut off your head, dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground," the rider growled.

Faster than she thought possibly, Legolas's bow was drawn and nocked, an arrow to the string but inches from the rider's face. "You would die before your stroke fell," the elf said coolly, even as the riders all around prepared to strike.

_I will not die over this_, Aragorn groaned in his head. He stepped forward as quickly as he could, putting himself between the rider and the arrow. Legolas lowered his bow slowly, but kept the rider's gaze with such fire even Sakhra felt its heat.

"I am Aragorn, Son of Arathorn," he said, gesturing to himself in an attempt to diffuse the matter. "This is Gimli, Son of Gloin, Legolas of the Woodland Realm and," he faltered, just a little, and waved a hand at Sakhra. "Sakhra of Harad."

_He is too honest for his own good_, she thought, but begrudgingly pulled away the veil to reveal herself. A murmur went through the eored and the spears around her did not know what to do. Some lowered, some grew closer – she was a woman, but a Haradrim. Harmless, but a danger.

"We are friends of Rohan," Aragorn continued, using the most kingly voice he could muster. "And of Theoden, your king."

The rider surveyed her with a sharp eye but the mention of the king seemed to soften him some. He sighed and removed his helmet, revealing a young face lined with more worries than he had the years for. "Theoden no longer recognizes friend from foe," he said, brushing a wisp of hair from his face. "Not even his own kin."

Sakhra wracked her memory, trying to think of the contracts again. There were not many for the lords of Rohan, but enough. For Theoden, the king, and Theodred, his heir. _But this man does not have the heir of a prince, even of this ruddy country. _

But the rider answered the question for her. "I am Eomer, son of Eomund, the king's nephew by way of his sister."

"What ails King Theoden?" Aragorn pressed, and even Eomer could see the concern in his eyes. "What's happened to him?"

"Saruman the White has poisoned his mind," he breathed, his voice almost breaking. This was an evil he knew firsthand. "He uses my uncle as a puppet now, to destroy this country from within. My company are those loyal to Rohan and for that, we are banished."

_Saruman's influence has spread farther than I feared_, Sakhra thought, her eyes searching through the throng of riders. She saw a brokenness in them, the place that hope once was. All were dirty, their armor stained, their horses sweating. These were good men on the brink, ready to fall.

But her pity dissolved when Eomer moved to stand before her, his eyes running over every inch of her face with nothing but hatred. "The White Wizard is cunning," he growled, prowling around her like a bird of prey. "Everywhere his spies slip past our nets."

She felt Legolas tense next to her, his bow still in hand. Without thinking, she pressed a hand to his arm, holding him back. "You think Saruman is foolish enough to send a Haradrim spy into _Rohan_?" she replied, calm as ever. "I don't exactly blend in."

To her surprise, the tempestuous rider did not shout or growl as he did before. Instead, one side of his mouth twitched, almost betraying a smile. "I suppose not."

She ducked her chin in a tiny nod, and as one, the riders around her seemed to relax, even pulling back their beloved spears. As they moved, she caught a familiar sight and scent – blood. _Uruk blood._

"We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain," she heard Aragorn say, even as her mind put the pieces together.

"You fought them in the night?" she blurted out, now seeing the dim stains black blood on every spear and sword. It was even still on Eomer, dark splashes across his greaves where he road through open throats. "Great black beasts, bigger than orcs?"

"We did," he replied, raising an eyebrow at her. "What is it to you?"

"They took two of our friends captive-," Aragorn said, trying to keep his voice level, but the fear was there. It was one they all shared.

Gimli stepped forward, almost pleading. "Did you see two hobbits with them? Halflings, look like children?"

When Eomer shook his head, Sakhra felt as if someone had dropped a cold stone into her stomach. She turned her head, searching for a spot on the ground to stare at. _It's not true_, she screamed, but her mind knew better.

"We slaughtered the Uruks in the night, we could not see-," Eomer began, looking upon them with something like remorse. "We left none alive." Then he turned, pointing through a gap in the surrounding riders. On the far horizon, a trail of black smoke reached into the sky. "We piled the carcasses and burned them."

There was warmth at her back, barely pressing against her. She knew it could only be Legolas, his body tense and hard as stone in his grief. She could almost hear his jaw tightening against the pain of another loss he did not understand.

"Dead?" Gimli choked out, barely able to speak.

For his part, Aragorn could not speak at all, his eyes fixed on the ground. _We failed. I have failed. Again._

"I am sorry," Eomer said, and he truly was. Then his whistled, high and keen, causing Sakhra to jump in her skin. Only Legolas noticed, but said nothing.

Two horses came forward from the riders, their saddles empty. One was white, the other sorrel, and both were muscular, tall chargers of Rohan. They were well trained, walking up to Eomer with steady steps, and stopped at his shoulders.

"This is Hasufel and Arod," he said, taking their reins in one hand. With a bow of his head, he passed them over to Aragorn. "May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters." Then he drew back on his helmet and turned his broad back, moving towards his mount. He was in the saddle in a flash, with the skill only a Rohirrim could claim. "But do not trust to hope," he warned, looking at them all with a kingly gaze, "It has forsaken these lands."

His horse turned, needing only the slightest of nudges, before galloping away down the hill. The eored followed in a storm of hooves and dust, leaving the Hunters behind.

The stillness that followed seemed odd and heavy, full of grief. Aragorn did not let it settle long. He all but threw Arod's reins at Legolas before climbing into the saddle of the sorrel. "They are alive," he said plainly, before gesturing for Sakhra.

She understood and climbed up behind him, glad to be off her feet. But the price of that, the lives of Merry and Pippin, was far too high to pay.

Legolas and Gimli, with some difficulty, mounted the white horse as well. Despite the added weight, the two horses rode well and strong, covering the distance in no time at all.

In his mind, Aragorn thought of everything but the growing plume of smoke. His mind wandered to Sakhra at his back, noting how she did not even hold onto him, using only her knees to cling to the horse. _She would hold onto Legolas, _he mused, and silently congratulated himself on avoiding that blunder.

* * *

**ROHAN ROHAN ROHAN.  
**

**I think you guys finally understand that I. Love. Rohan.**


	16. You Were Meant

**I'm going to keep posting on FF for as long as I can. I simply couldn't hit delete, and I couldn't lose you guys. Sorry for the yo-yo-ing, but hopefully this chapter makes up for it.**

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**XVI - You Were Meant**

* * *

They flew over the landscape, letting the rise cloud of smoke be their guide. Legolas kept pace evenly, guiding the white horse with whispered Elvish. It was already bent to his will, obeying his every whim, while the sorrel horse seemed more skittish beneath Aragorn and Sakhra. It had already lost a rider to these lands and did not wish to lose another.

The wind shifted, bringing up a warm breeze from the west that made Sakhra's skin crawl. One breath and she could smell it – burning flesh. But this was not the wood smoke of a funeral pyre or even the black stench of roasting skin. These were Uruk-hai and as foul as they were in life, they were fouler in death. She had to duck her head and reattach her veil, but the odor was strong, piercing the fabric with ease. Even Aragorn stiffened as they approached, his hands tight on the sorrel's reins.

When they crested the final rise, a green and gray shadow rose to meet them. It was a great forest, tangled and overgrown, so thick no woodsman could think to cut it down. And in the eaves of the wood, the smoking, stinking pile lay. More than twice a man's height and three times that across, it was a brutal construct of limbs and entrails. Blood stained the golden grass, soaking into the dirt beneath. Legolas could almost hear the earth scream in protest to such an affliction. There was black skin and boiled leather, all stamped with the stark white hand. Indeed, these were the Uruks they pursued, the captors of Merry and Pippin, and the slayers of Boromir.

Sakhra's fist clenched and for a moment, she wished she could've done it herself. She deserved vengeance on these foul creatures and now it would never come.

At the base of the pile, an Uruk head stood on a pike in warning – _the Rohirrim still fight. _Usually the sight would have cheered any righteous heart, but now the Hunters fell into a silent sorrow.

Gimli was the first from the saddle, plodding forward to dig through the bodies. He was careful at first, using his axe to sift through, but grew more desperate as the quiet moments wore on.

Sakhra was loathe to leave the saddle and learn the terrible fate of her friends, but dismounted when Aragorn did. His eyes went to the ground and his hands to the earth, sifting through the burnt grass and blood. She wanted to follow, to try and find their last resting place, but could not find it in her heart to move. All she could do was stare, her eyes fixed on the flames flickering within the unholy mound of beasts.

She could feel his presence at her shoulder, hesitating a few inches away. Legolas said nothing, but then there was nothing to say and she was glad for it. Speaking would only make this more real.

"It's one of their wee belts," Gimli suddenly whispered, his voice breaking. In his hands he held a charred piece of leather, the intricate elven craftsmanship still evident. _The knives of Lothlorien, given by Galadriel herself. This is its fate._

Sakhra was not one for tears, she never had been, but this quest seemed to draw tears from her like blood from a wound. They came slowly, without sound, hot and thick down her cheeks.

Somewhere to her left, Aragorn roared, kicking a helmet in his rage. He fell to his knees, face red with anger, and hid his face in his hands.

This was not like Boromir's death, or even Gandalf's. They were men, able warriors ready to die for their cause. But the hobbits were full of smiles and jokes and warm embraces, not war. Not death. They were meant for warm beds, not the cold sting of steel.

Though Sakhra did not keep many Harad customs, she kept to her prayers. Slowly, she dropped to her knees and bowed her head, letting her hands draw the shapes and her lips mouth the words. Legolas did the same in his own tongue, praying for the souls of the hobbits taken too soon. Again he faced death and again he did not understand. It was not like the elf prince to feel grief, but now he felt its sting in everything, even in what should have given him joy. _Doom waits in every shadow, for each and every person I hold dear._

His hand was cold on her shoulder, like an oasis spring in the desert and she wanted to lean into the touch. But it was fleeting, barely a passing moment, before he was gone again. Now the elf embraced Gimli, forcibly stopping him from tearing through the carcasses.

"A hobbit lay here."

Aragorn's voice was soft, but firm. He frowned at the ground, finally having found the tracks they had been seeking for so long. _But too late. Far too late._

"And the other was beside him," he continued, gently turning aside the grass to read the earth beneath.

"The Uruks made camp," Sakhra murmured. She did her best to keep her voice from shaking. Rising to her feet, she brushed away dark tears. "The Rohirrim came on them in the darkness, as Eomer said."

Aragorn nodded, but he was only half-listening. His attention was on the tracks, on piecing together what was probably the last moments of the hobbits' lives. "They crawled," he said, following their path. The others were not far behind, haunting the ranger's steps. "Their hands were bound."

When his grip tightened on a length of rope, his heart leapt in his chest. "Their bonds were cut!" Now he was running, chasing footprints like ghosts. "These tracks lead away from the battle!"

Behind her veil, Sakhra smiled wide and bright. Hope was not something she was accustomed to but, like tears, it had come quite often upon this quest. _Hope remains, while the company is true._ Galadriel's words spoken aloud in Lothlorien echoed now, pulsing with the stone at her neck. _And we are true as we can be._

But Aragorn came to a halt before the dark shadow, his shoulders slumping. His voice betrayed his trepidation. "Into Fangorn Forest."

"Fangorn!" Gimli gasped aloud, and Sakhra did not miss him reach for his axe. In truth, she felt her own shiver at the name. Like the dwarf, she was not accustomed to the black watches of a forest. "What madness drove them in there?'

Her own discomfort was but an afterthought now. Merry and Pippin were alive, and they were within reach. She must only step forward and find them. _I could not protect Frodo, but I will protect them._

So with light steps, she crossed the border of the forest, tearing away her veil as she did so. The elf and the ranger were not far behind, their eyes trained on every flickering shadow, and the dwarf reluctantly brought up the rear.

* * *

It could be night for all she knew. The forest canopy was so thick with leaves the whole world seemed dark, bathed in an odd green light that made every murky. _Mirkwood_, she remembered, thinking of Legolas's woodland home. _That was worse than this place, so much darker and deeper. _But that was the Greenwood, a place guarded by the strength of elves, and it was not so fearsome at Fangorn.

Aragorn was not deterred by the thick undergrowth and tracked the hobbits like a hound. But the trail was lost not far from the border, and from there he could only follow strange tracks and broken branches. He cursed under his breath, but his resolve never faltered. They were so close. He would not lose them again.

Sakhra made sure to keep clear of the great roots, afraid of becoming tangled in them. There were the stories of course, of trees that moved and talked and took vengeance on woodsmen, but she did not believe them. Still, she could not help but see faces in each trunk and knot of branches. The leaves seemed to whisper without wind, hissing black words no man could understand.

"What do they say?" she asked aloud, turning to one who was not a man.

Legolas was already listening keenly, always in wonder of his woodland friends. He glanced over his shoulder at Sakhra and could not fight a smile. She looked like a shadow in her hood and leathers, but out of place still. A desert in the middle of the trees.

"They say many things. Some speak of days long past, of memories even elves cannot remember," he replied, laying a hand on a nearby trunk. He could feel the life pulsing in it still, but the sensation was weak and sluggish. "This forest is older, much older than me."

She couldn't help but smirk. "And how old is that?" It was something she often wondered, having never known an elf before.

"How old are you?" he replied, a hint of mirth worming into his voice. Now that he knew the hobbits were alive and he was beneath the green light of a forest again, some joy returned to the elf prince.

"Bad idea," Gimli chuckled, clutching his axe to his chest. "Asking a woman her age. Got the scars to prove it."

Her shoulders shook with laughter and she nodded in agreement. "Clearly Master Dwarf has had more dealings with women than an elven prince," she said, patting the dwarf on the shoulder. They laughed together and, to his own dismay, Legolas felt a flush color his cheeks.

It was true, he did not deal with women-folk often. At least, not in the way Sakhra meant. His companions were scouts and bowmen of the Greenwood, and if they happened to be women, so be it. But the women of court were a different tale. Legolas disliked his father's wide hall and the silliness it bred. He was uncomfortable in silks, under the gaze of so many watchful eyes, and shied away from feasts and parties whenever he could. He was more at home in the trees, protecting his homeland from the darkness slowly closing in.

Now he did the same, except this time he was defending Middle-Earth. Sakhra was just another scout, another sister in arms to share battle and camp with. _But that is not true_, he chided himself. The voice came from deep in his heart. _She is not the same as the ones who came before._

Because she was a human, because she was Haradrim, or because he could not tear his eyes away from her, he did not know.

Legolas was a quiet creature, she knew that from long days in the wild, but the silences that came to him more often were different. More thoughtful and, to her fear, more dark. She did not like them at all and tried to break them whenever possible.

"I'm thirty-six, by Guild reckoning," she said suddenly, her voice crashing through his thoughts. He raised his eyes to find her staring, her look concerned. "They think I was three when I came to them. Luckily the Snakeblood kept good records of his possessions."

"I have no skill in guessing the ages of men," Legolas replied, his head finally clearing, "but I would have thought you younger than that?" Indeed, Sakhra's face did not betray her age at all. There were no lines or spots of age anywhere, even after years under a harsh sun. She looked more like the young ladies still looking for husbands, though he knew she was anything but.

Gimli nudged Legolas with his shoulder. "Maybe we misjudged the elf," he said with a smirk.

Sakhra merely shrugged off what she thought was a veiled compliment. She did not notice Aragorn, another far older than his appearance, watching her shrewdly. "Well, your turn," she goaded.

"Elves do not measure time as mortals do," he sighed, running his hand down the bark of a gnarled tree. A deep gash from an axe cut it deeply and it pained him to see such a thing. "I was very young, an elfling still not permitted to leave my father's halls, when King Ciryandil died in the siege of Umbar. That was the last news of the West we cared to hear, for Sauron soon built a fortress in the Greenwood and it took all my father's attention and skill to keep us safe."

The breath caught in her throat and she struggled to speak around it. "The siege of Umbar?" she gasped, thinking back to lessons learned at the Guild. "That was three thousand years ago!"

"Yes, I believe so." Her wonder was not unusual. Mortals always seemed to react this way, even towards the younger elves.

_But he looks so young, so fair._ Her eyes ran over every inch of him, as if she was seeing it for the first time. There was nothing to mark his age, but she could see the weight of time still. "I would have thought you younger than that," she finally said, repeating his words with a lopsided grin.

It was one he returned in kind.

"It's often said I look half my age," Gimli crowed aloud, prancing a little in his iron shod boots. "One hundred and forty years on this earth, if you can believe it."

She gave him a little tug on his beard, playful as always with the dwarf. "I wouldn't have thought you over sixty, my friend."

It cheered Legolas's heart to see his friends in such a way, without the weight and cares of the last few days, but the feeling did not last. As it did on the banks of the Anduin, a dark shadow crept over his thoughts, warning him of something to come. He turned sharply, his eyes scanning through the trees. He looked past Aragorn, through the leaves and branches, and what he saw made him tremble.

"Aragorn," he called, one hand reaching for his bow. In his haste, he slipped back into Elvish. "_Something's out there._"

Under different circumstances, she would've been annoyed, angry even at his use of Elvish. But his tone sent shivers over her skin and without thought, Sakhra closed a hand around her sword. Fear was not something she was used to hearing from Legolas Thranduillion.

Aragorn appeared through the gloom like a dark raven, silently returning. "_What do you see?_"

He could hear the others drawing close, Gimli with his axe and Sakhra her sword. Neither voiced concern but their hearts hammered in ragged unison, betraying their fear. _They should be afraid_, he knew. Then he glimpsed it again, a white shadow haunting through the trees like a terrible ghost. _Not a ghost._

"The white wizard approaches," Legolas murmured, tipping his head towards the danger.

_The white wizard. _Sakrha almost felt her breath catch in her throat. She thought she would be ready for any enemy but this, a _wizard_, this was not a foe she could best with steel. _Not even Gandalf could face_ _Saruman. _Her mind flashed back to his imprisonment at Isengard, to the long nights of rain and misery he spoke of. Their fate at the hands of the wizard would be much worse. _And Merry and Pippin are already lost._

For a brief moment, she wished for the simple days, for battles of steel and shadow. It was a life she understood, when she understood _herself_. Now she faced uncertainty around every corner, especially in her heart. _But I am free now. I am no one's sword, no one's slave. I am myself, and my fate is my own. _That, she knew, was worth any danger.

Slowly, with all the determination she had in her shaking fingers, Sakhra's hand drew her daggers. Small, sharp and lethal, they felt right in her hands. _These I understand._

"Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us," Aragorn said, his voice barely a whisper. But his sword sang against its sheath as he grasped the hilt. He was ready. "We must be quick."

With lightning speed and astounding silence, Legolas had an arrow to his bow. His aim was true and deadly, perhaps even for a wizard. Gimli's own throwing axe, a brutal thing, found its way into his hand.

Even as something moved through the undergrowth, a hissing cloak over leaves, Sakhra felt her fear leave her. She was with the Hunters, _one _of them, part of a deadly force to make greater foes tremble. And she would fall with them, if she had to. _It is the best death I could hope for, a noble end to a deceitful life._

When Aragorn roared aloud, his sword screaming from its sheath, they turned as one. The dagger left her hand before she could even think, cutting through the air with blazing speed. An arrow already whistled, a blur on the wind, and the axe followed. Three sharp ends, three deaths for any other. But the White Wizard, a blinding figure, moved with efficiency and speed. His staff arced, batting the arrow from the air, while the axe shattered against a bolt of light. Her dagger cleaved in two inches from his face, cut by sheer power alone. The final blow came with the clang of Aragorn's sword, now red with inner heat, and too fiery to hold.

"You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits."

The voice that came from the figure was as terrible as she thought it would be, a sound to stir the soul. Still they could not see his face, but she did not need to. The white robe and staff were clearly visible, even as the sun at his back clouded everything else. _We are lost._

Only the ranger found his mettle, braving the anger of a wizard to shout back. "Where are they?" Aragorn demanded, even taking a step forward in threat.

"They passed this way," the wizard replied, and she could almost hear his wicked smile. _He is taunting us, a cat playing with the mouse before dinner. _"The day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?"

She fought the urge to cry aloud. Gandalf's riddles were an annoyance on the best of days, but this was excruciating. It seemed Aragorn shared her thought and he threw caution to the winds, goading the wizard. "Who are you?" he yelled. "Show yourself!"

When the white figure shifted, drawing out of the light into their vision, Sakhra wanted to scream. This was Saruman's greatest trick, his last act of evil before killing them all. Not only had he taken Boromir, Merry, and Pippin, but now he took Gandalf's own face. _Or I have simply gone mad. _

The truth, the easy truth of Gandalf's survival, did not even occur to her. Not when Aragorn stepped forward into the circle of Gandalf's light or when Legolas sank to his knees. Even Gimli bowed, dropping his mighty axe to the ground.

"It cannot be." She barely heard Aragorn's words, almost frozen in her own mind. _It is a trick, a trap, _she wanted to shout. But she could do nothing more than stare, fighting the tears, fighting the pain, fighting the old sorrow that Gandalf's death had planted in her heart. _This cannot be._

Tears pricked at her eyes but she would not let them fall. She would not give this trickster the pleasure of her tears. Every instinct in her told her to run, to fight, to save her friends from this spell, but something stayed her hand. Something in the old man's familiar, soft blue eyes.

"Forgive me." Legolas's voice was her anchor, letting her swim back to thought and reason. He was still on the ground, his clenched fists to the earth. "I mistook you for Saruman."

"But I am Saruman," the white figure said with Gandalf's deep but gentle voice. The sound made Sakhra's heart clench. "Or rather, Saruman as he should have been."

_More riddles. _Now they were a comfort.

Her voice felt thick in her throat and she could barely swallow, let alone speak. She was not used to such emotion; first losing Boromir, then the hobbits, but now Gandalf was returned to them. _Gandalf had returned. Gandalf had lived. And with him, hope. _

"You fell." Aragorn's voice shook as badly as her hands, but he was still every inch a king. Again, he was closing his mind to the feelings of his heart. He was like a Hasharin in that way, able to distance himself from emotion.

Sakhra was like that once, and though she missed the easiness of that life, the lack of pain and fear, she did not want to return to it. Emotion made her weak, but it also made her strong. She fought harder for herself and her friends, for the Fellowship that had wormed their way into what she thought was a dead heart.

"Through fire and water. From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak, I fought with the Balrog of Morgoth." Gandalf answered, his eyes glistening with the fearsome memory. Sakhra remembered the balrog too, and could not fathom how even a wizard could defeat it. "Darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time. Stars wheeled overhead and every day was as long as a life age of the Earth. But it was not the end. I felt life in me again."

"My winged friends spirited me from the peaks, and I came to Lothlorien. There, Lady Galadriel clad me anew, and I became what I am." Now, a bit of his old self returned and he chuckled. "I missed you by mere days, of course. Such is the way of things. You were meant to travel without me, and you were meant to let Frodo go."

His blue eyes bored in Aragorn's, as if he could see all the pain he carried, even he did not allow himself to feel it. In that gaze, Aragorn found understanding, and even absolution. _I made the right choice. I let Frodo go._ He ducked his head, fighting the urge to smile into his cloak. _Hope is returned._

"Was Boromir meant to die?"

Her voice rasped, and she did not mean for it to come out so hard. The words stung her as much as they did Gandalf. He was not hurt by her intention, or even by her distant manner, but by the thought of the Gondorian brought so low. Tempted and killed, as he did not deserve to be.

Gandalf turned away from Aragorn and padded across the forest floor. His cloak made no noise at all, as if it was made of light. She trembled as he took her hand, expecting it to be cold as death, but found nothing but familiar warmth. As with Aragorn, Gandalf saw into her heart and understood the troubles there.

"It is me, my girl," he murmured, putting another hand over her own. It felt like the sun on her skin. "I am Gandalf, the Gandalf I was before, the Gandalf I am now, and the Gandalf I will be."

In her mind, she saw him as she did the first time. A gray man in a gray cloak, half shrouded in ocean mist. She thought him a beggar like the rest at the docks, but quickly learned otherwise. He was a wizard, a trickster, a wise man, and a friend. The first she ever had. And despite the white cloak and the white staff, she saw him underneath. She saw him as he was and as he would be.

"If you die again, I shall kill you," she muttered, trying in vain to brush away a tear.

His laughter shook the boughs above them, and green leaves fell like rain. "If I do, I shall let you."


	17. A Woman Is A Threat To No One

**Been busy-busy with work and things. But the new Hobbit trailer jumpstarted me! Yay!  
**

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**KIRAMIR**

**XVII - A Woman Is A Threat To No One  
**

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"I come back to you now, at the turn of the tide."

Sakhra could almost laugh at the sound of Gandalf's voice. It was enough to turn the darkness away, forcing it back into the corners of her mind. _The hobbits are safe. They found Gandalf before we did. They are safe. And Gandalf, Gandalf is alive._ That was enough to lift the weight a little, to take some burden from already bent shoulders. Already she could feel herself straighten and life pounded in her blood. Her blade still thirsted for death, but she did not. She had purpose still. _And Boromir would not want me to grieve, to hold onto him until his own demons drag me down. _

They walked out of the woods at great speed, eager to be free of the dark woods, to follow the brightness that was Gandalf the White. Aragorn could not hide his smile, despite his best efforts, and Sakhra was pleased to find the ranger had a heart buried deep beneath his leathers. Even Legolas was happy to go; for the first time in his long life, the forest could not hold his heart, not while his friends were near, not while the quest still remained unfinished. Like Aragorn, he wore a smile, and was glad to see Sakhra did too. Her smile had become a rarity after Gandalf's passing, but now it seemed those days were over. The dark time on the river, when her skin paled and her eyes dulled, was gone.

"And where will that tide take us?" Sakhra grabbed a branch and swung herself over a patch of brambles. Another might think her showing off, but she was just excited, overrun with adrenaline, and ready to follow Gandalf wherever he might lead.

Gandalf's eyes twinkled at her, amused by her display of merriment. Though he understood many cultures, the Haradrim were still difficult to predict. A smile could mean death, a tear a spared life, and everything in between. _Shifting as the sands_, he remembered, thinking back to when he first met Sakhra Shastaskar.

"We go to Rohan now, to defend a kingdom of men from darkness," he replied, breathing deeply. The air was fresh, the plains close. Even now he could see them through the trees, a golden blanket to smother all the world.

Gimli snorted to himself, a little indignant. "I think we met the darkness. It took the form of a rude horse master," he grumbled, thinking back to their ill meeting hours before. "Nothing I couldn't have taken care of myself."

"Eomer of Rohan," Aragorn added, answering Gandalf's quizzical look. "He led an Eored of banished horsemen, all of them armed and hardened."

The wizard's scowl deepened as he quickened his pace. "It's worse than I feared. Eomer is king's blood, a lord of Rohan. If Theoden sent him away, then his mind is truly overthrown."

"Saruman's arm has grown long, if he can affect the king of Rohan," Sakhra said, falling into step next to Gandalf. "What stops him from doing the same to Denethor, or any of us?"

_Us _hung in the air like a cloud. _Aragorn _is what she meant, and Aragorn knew it. He tightened his jaw, as if clenching his teeth could chase away the darkness. But in his heart, he wondered. _The Ring is not the only evil in the world. _

"Saruman's power is foul and growing," Gandalf replied, spitting out the wizard's name like a bad taste. "But he does not work alone. Someone in the court of Theoden spreads his poison, destroying the king from within."

They stepped out into the sunlight as one, and the relief was easy to see. The horses nickered, still waiting dutifully for their riders, and trotted towards them. Both nosed at Legolas, happy to see the elf again. He raised his hands to their heads, patting them both, murmuring in Elvish to calm the beasts. They had seen death and it haunted them still; for that, he could offer some respite.

Sakhra sighed aloud, turning her face to the sun. Together with the prospect of familiar ground, it cheered her like nothing else.

"A royal court," she chuckled, smirking to herself. "That's something I understand."

Gandalf could not help but nod, knowing all her exploits fully. "Indeed."

"Send me to Edoras, and I'll have Saruman's man bled by the time you catch up." The words came so easily, the thoughts even easier. _A bit of white powder for my skin, doe eyes, a basket of washing. A stumble and a glint of steel. _

Though she spoke with a smile, a smirk even, it did nothing to cheer Legolas. This was a different Sakhra, the one hidden in memory and shadow. A woman who cared nothing for the lives of men, who delighted in their end, who did not fear the rattle of a dying breath. For an elf so in love with life and living things, it made him uneasy. _This is who she is. She told you herself. She showed you in every swing of the blade. _But then her foes were orcs and Uruk-Hai, bleak creatures, not people. Not hearts and souls.

_You are afraid of her._ Another part of him answered, speaking inside his head. _I am afraid _for _her. Who knows where this path my lead?_

"Who's to say you go?" Gimli crowed, planting his axe in the ground. "I'll fell the weasel like a sapling, and in half the time."

Sakhra could barely contain her laughter and clapped a hand to Gimli's armored shoulder, shaking him a little. "A dwarf in the Golden Hall. Not exactly subtle. Even with the sharpest of axes, the lightest of steps, he'll see you coming." He only grumbled in response. "Finally, I might be of some use."

"You have been of use already," Legolas said quickly, though his face showed no evidence of the words. She merely shrugged off the compliment, more focused on Gandalf.

The wizard was not so keen to respond. Sakhra's use, he knew, lay somewhere far from death, but to what end, he could not say yet. And the less she fell back into her old life, the better. That was a road clouded by darkness, awash in blood. It was a road he could not let her take.

"Of use you shall be, but not yet. I must see the king, and throw away the yoke of Saruman myself." His words were final, she knew, and she had no heart to argue now that she had him back. "Besides, you would find the court of Edoras simple. People speak plainly. Intrigue is rare. Assassinations are few and far between."

She clucked her tongue and shrugged. The sorrel horse reacted to the sound, turning his head towards her. She patted him with an outstretched hand, enjoying the feel of horse. "Sounds like a boring place."

"And," he added, chucking her under the chin. "You could never outrun me."

"Have you grown wings since last I saw you?" Sakhra quipped, turning to find Gandalf staring into the wind.

"After a fashion," he said, and whistled pure and keen.

The sound carried over the plains, echoing in every hollow, off every rock. A breeze carried it far and away, to the river and the mountains beyond. It was sharp but clean, like cold water from a spring. And what answered was like snow, like clouds, like the wind made into flesh.

"That is one of the Mearas," Legolas breathed, staring at the galloping creature. Its motions were slow and graceful, but somehow it moved with terrible speed. He was a white stallion, incomparable, the pinnacle of power and speed.

Gandalf stepped forward, one snow-cloaked arm outstretched. The horse came willingly, nosing into his embrace. Though it had the pride of a king, it was but a pet in Gandalf's hands. "His name is Shadowfax, and he is the lord of all horses. Even your famed sand-mares are no match for him," he added, throwing a pointed look at Sakhra.

"Give me a sand-mare and we shall find out," she replied, invigorated by Gandalf's goading. Despite the white cloak, he was himself again. He had not changed.

_She has not changed,_ Gandalf thought, and chuckled inwardly. "Well, they both came at my call, but-," he looked away, turning his gaze back to the hill. "Ah, there we are. A bit slow for my taste."

A slight, black shadow flew over the golden landscape, as twisting and beautiful as smoke.

If Shadowfax was the wind, Ashere was the storm that came behind. Her mane had grown long and thick, nourished by Elvish stables, and her coat still gleamed, but there was mud on her hooves and dust on the saddle. Shadowfax bore no evidence of his long journey, but Ashere wore them plainly. Long miles she had run, with a Mearas to set the pace.

Legolas thought he had seen Sakhra smile before, but this was something entirely different. Her grin showed more teeth than he thought possible, splitting from ear to ear, and her whoop of celebration came in Haradaic, too fast for him to understand. She threw back her hood and her braid came free, as black as her horse's mane. In an instant the horse was in her arms, her small hooves prancing as she nuzzled her mistress.

"Ashere," she breathed, and the horse even smelled familiar. There was lavender from Rivendell and mallorn from Lothlorien, but beneath, salt, heat, sandgrass – everything she once knew.

"You left Rivendell, you silly girl," she scolded, though her tone was light and pleased. "Couldn't stay still, could you?"

"Just like her rider," Gimli chuckled.

"A remarkable beast. She was waiting in Lothlorien, where the Elves released her into my care," Gandalf explained as she took the horse by the reins, leading her back to the Hunters.

Ashere whinnied at the other horses, unafraid, and showed no favor to Sakhra's companions. Even Legolas. It was not often a horse favored another over Legolas, but sand-mares were not common steeds. Raised in the dunes, bred to ride fast and far, they knew nothing of elves or their tongue. It was Haradaic they understood, and to the Haradrim they owed their allegiance.

Long generations in the desert where speed could mean the difference between life or death bred, not the fastest horses, but the most enduring. They could run for days on little water and less food, crossing deserts and dunes where no other animal could. Shadowfax was power made flesh, but Ashere was small and slender, with bright as stars. If the Mearas were the kings of horses, sand-mares were the swift-footed queens.

"A beautiful horse," Aragorn said. He couldn't help running a hand over the black mare, marveling at the gloss beneath his fingers. Black horses were rare in the West, as most were taken from the herds by Mordor, raised to be servants of the Dark Lord. But there was no evil red gleam in this one's eyes. It was a creature of the South, of the East, but not of Sauron. "I've never seen a sand-mare before, not even when I traveled in Harad long ago."

"And you'll never see another of her quality," Sakhra said proudly. "In the South, a good mare is more valuable than a mumak. Bloodlines are jealously guarded and well-traced. My Ashere is the daughter of war chargers and desert racers. She might not be able to outrun your Shadowfax, but she'll come closer than any other. And she'll go farther."

Legolas could not help but feel a warmth deep in himself. Moments ago, Sakhra's words had chilled him. Her past was unsettling at best. But now, with a piece of her path alive and prancing before them, she seemed happier than ever, without the shadow of the past. _Not all of her memories are evil, just as she is not evil._ Despite the horse's suspicion of elves, he ran a hand down Ashere's muscular neck, whispering in Elvish as he did so.

The horse snorted in response, not frightened, but puzzled by this new language. Sakhra cold not help but laugh. "Your tricks won't work on this one," she said, silently delighting in Legolas's failure. _Ashere knows better than to fall for the likes of you._

"She wouldn't be the first," Legolas murmured, and Sakhra did not miss his veiled meaning. Neither did Aragorn, but he held his tongue.

As a dwarf, Gimli held no love for horses. To him, they all seemed the same: skittish and noisy and far too tall. "I assume you paid for this one in full," he said with a little gleam in his eye.

Again, Ashere snorted loudly, and they all laughed.

"Someone did," Sakhra retorted, before swinging herself into the saddle. The leather beneath her was Elvish, carved in the manner of Lothlorien, and it felt wrong on her horse. But that was the least of her troubles.

* * *

Sand-mares were bred to run in sand, over harsh terrain few animals could traverse. Over the dunes they raced; over the sloping plains of Rohan, they flew. And with Sakhra back in the saddle, her able hands and familiar weight guiding every step, Ashere exploded with joy. Though the four riders traveled through the night, their horses never tired, even Hasufel carrying both Gimli and Legolas. Sakhra was careful to give Ashere free rein and, in the dark night, the others often lost sight of the swift shadow.

But not Legolas. Even when Ashere pulled away, eager to circle a hill or gallop over a stream a league away, he kept her in sight. From afar, he watched Sakhra throw back her head and stare at the stars. Once or twice, she even laid back in the saddle, her body flat against Ashere's, never breaking pace.

Dawn came too soon for him and with it, Edoras. It rose from the valley in a massive spit of rock, and thatched roofs gleamed in the early morning sun. Above all, the Golden Hall of Meduseld glittered brightest, gleaming like the jewel at Sakhra's throat.

Sakhra could not help but scowl at the approaching court. Though she had smirked and joked before, it was only a ruse. Her old life and anything that might remind her of it put a sour taste in her mouth and a pain in her heart. And despite Gandalf's assurances, she could not shake the feeling that this place would draw her back into the dark web of her past.

Her shoulders squared, her posture stiffened, and Legolas noticed. After months of travel, he had become intoned to Sakhra's tendencies, small and guarded as they were. And right now, she was afraid. _But of what? _Saruman's spy, the Rohirrim, even a king should not frighten her so. And yet her eyes darkened and she drew the hood back over her head. _At least she hasn't returned to the veil._

"The gates are closed," Aragorn said when they came to a stop on a rise "They will not be kind to visitors."

Sakhra scoffed to herself. "They never are."

"When Theoden is free, he will welcome us with open arms," Gandalf assured, his eyes flashing. In the daylight, with his white cloak and staff, he looked like a blinding star.

_Surely all of Edoras can see him,_ Sakhra thought. _The White Rider comes._

Aragorn was right, and only Gandalf's quick tongue saved them from being locked out. The guards were particularly wary of Sakhra and Legolas, their blue eyes following the pair as they entered on horseback. One even spit at her horse's hooves, but Sakhra kept her eyes forward and her mouth shut. In another life, she would've cut his throat for such an offence. _But that life is gone._

"Brown whore," the guard hissed, before slamming shut the gates again. She barely flinched at the sound. _I've heard worse from worse men_.

But Legolas had not. He didn't miss the way her hands knotted into Ashere's mane, her knuckles turning white with anger. Without thought, he reached out and put his hand over her own.

It was a brief, fleeting moment, but enough. She almost sighed with relief when he didn't speak, for no words were needed. For a moment, she thought he meant to still her, to stop her from silencing the guard forever, but the anger in his eyes said differently. _He is trying to stop himself._

_I could put an arrow through the slat in the gate_, he thought, his mind pulsing with rage like he'd never known before. _Through his throat, so that he might never speak again._

"He's a guard on the watch," she muttered, shifting so that her hand pulled away from his. "Let him think what he wants. I've heard much worse."

_How can she say that,_ he wanted to ask. _How can she allow such a slight against her honor?_ _I can hardly bear it, but she carries on._ "Very well," he said instead, his voice hard through gritted teeth.

Aragorn did not turn around to watch this display, not wanting to bring more attention to Sakhra's embarrassment then there needed to be. But he knew his friend well enough to know what anger boiled beneath blue eyes and blonde hair. The elf was not so calm and level as his kin, particularly where friends were concerned.

"I noted his face and shield," Gimli said suddenly, his rough voice a welcome break. "He'll soon be begging your pardon, if my axe has anything to say about it."

Sakhra nodded, forcing a smile. "Let it pass," she replied, turning her face forward. "He makes no difference to me."

At that moment, the sun broke through white clouds above, illuminating the company and the city as it opened before them. The main street was stone, lined by thatch and wood buildings, all of them carved with horses. This was nothing like the cities of Gondor or even the Harad coasts, but it bustled still. Old women carried washing while men shoed horses or worked the forge. A few children flitted through the alleys, chasing chickens and dogs. Edoras quieted as they passed, with many stopping to watch the strange line of travelers. Every face stared, wondering at the wizard, the dwarf, the elf, the man, and the dark maiden. _You must wear many masks_, Sakhra thought, remembering her old lessons. _Most important of all is your own face, and what you make of it._

Sakhra tipped her head and lowered her hood in swift motion, revealing her face for all to see. Elsewhere, the others would be cheered by an action, but here, amongst so many strangers, it was puzzling. Sakhra liked to remain hidden, and now it seemed she was doing the opposite. She even unbraided her hair, letting it fall in black sheets over one shoulder. And Legolas averted his eyes when her hands strayed to her collar, unlacing the top stays of her leathers to reveal her collarbone beneath. A tattoo glistened there, black and twisting, another piece of the puzzle that was Sakhra Shastaskar.

"A woman is a threat to no one," she explained, keeping her voice low.

Ahead of them, Gandalf turned in his seat. "The more womanly she looks, the more dangerous she is," he added, winking a little at Sakhra. "I learned that lesson myself in Pelargir."

She pursed her lips, hiding a smile as she fixed her hair and cloak. "Many have learned that lesson."

Despite the dark meaning, Legolas could not help but smirk a little. His mind strayed to the halls of his father, and how she would be required to dress there. _She would be more dangerous than Sauron then._

At the peak of the hill, beneath the steps of Meduseld, they halted the horses and dismounted. Stable boys sprang from an alcove, rushing forward to take the horses. Sakhra was loathe to see Ashere go, but one well placed glare put the fear of Harad in the boys.

"The sons of Rohan are able horse lords, even the boys," Aragorn said, chuckling to himself. "No need to frighten them."

"But I enjoy it," she replied, flashing an exaggerated pout that was very unlike her. _A woman is a threat to no one._ And there were many guards here around the Golden Hall, looking for threats.

A few even barred the door, not moving an inch as they ascended the steps. Gandalf himself led them, and still the guards did not move from their post.

"I cannot allow you before Theoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame," said the door warden, and his voice did not quaver. Even in the face of a wizard and his companions, the guard was Rohirrim to the bone, with a will to match. "By order of Grima Wormtongue," he added, his face twisting with distaste.

_Saruman's spy no doubt,_ Sakhra thought, noting the guard's discomfort.

"Very well," Gandalf replied, nodding at the others. He moved first, unbelting his mighty sword Glamdring and handing it over to the guard.

Aragorn followed, passing away both his sword and his Elven dagger with as much of a grimace his pride would allow. Legolas did the same with his knives, spinning them once or twice for good measure, but gave them willingly. His bow was another issue and his hand lingered, gripping the Galadhrim gift. When he finally gave it over, Sakhra didn't miss the tightening of his jaw. Gimli was even worse, blustering and hawing over his axes. There was his long-axe, his throwing axes and tiny finger axes Sakhra had never seen before.

All of it seemed to shock the guards, but not the warden of the door. His eyes remained on Sakhra, waiting patiently. "My lady, your weapons."

Her ruse had not worked as well as she hoped, but she kept her face still. "Yes, of course," she purred, and unbelted her sword. The Hasharin dagger came next, but nothing else. There were many more, of course, but hidden from view, in her sleeves, her boots, and even her leathers.

This the others knew well, but said nothing. Only Gimli's smirk, hidden beneath his beard, and a twinkle of Gandalf's eye escaped them.

"Your staff," the warden prodded, throwing out an arm before Gandalf could walk past.

"What?" the wizard said, and his voice was suddenly rougher, weaker even. "Surely you would not part an old man from his walking stick?"

Sakhra had to turn her head, biting her lip to keep from laughing. _I am not the only one wearing a mask. _

Here the door warden faltered and finally nodded, wrenching open the great doors of Meduseld. They were carved with white horses and stern kings, the faces of old conquerors and heroes. But inside was dark and smelled old, heavy with smoke and days long past. To Sakhra, it was like a tomb to hold the living.

The king sat on his throne at the far end of the hall, though he looked more like a pile of wrinkles and fur. An oily man sat at his right, clutching the arm of the throne with pale, white fingers. A few courtiers, rough as their country, waited to petition the king by the hearth fire, while more idled in the shadows. She did not miss the hard men among them. Though they were not guards, they carried weapons and their eyes glinted with a harsh light.

Wormtongue whispered something to the king, but Sakhra could not catch his voice above the echo of their own footsteps. She was sure Legolas did, though he was now masquerading as Gandalf's nursemaid. The wizard clutched to the elf's arm and leaned heavily, masking the strength she knew coursed through him.

"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Theoden King," the wizard said, though his glare was saved for Wormtongue.

In the shadows, the hard men followed, coming into focus. _Thugs, hired from every ditch and hovel._ Sakhra flexed her fingers at her side and could not hide her smile. The dark corners of a throne room were familiar to her; this was a game she knew how to play.

"Why should I welcome you?" the king wheezed, his watery blue eyes fighting to stay open. He looked liable to die at any moment. "Gandalf Stormcrow."

"A just question, my liege," the snake hissed, standing from his seat. Despite his weedy appearance, he spoke with the strength of an army. "Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Lathspell I name him. Ill news is an ill news."

_That man will loose a few teeth before this day is done_.

"Be silent," Gandalf fired back, and drew his arm from Legolas. His back straightened and his voice quaked. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm!"

Suddenly, Wormtongue's eyes widened. "His staff," he muttered. Then his voice rose to a shout that roused the room. "I told you to take the wizard's staff!"

_They can try._

The thugs outnumbered them three to one, easy odds for such a band. They came in a mindless drove, with no thought or strategy, just big, mindless brutes. Most went for Gandalf, following their master's order, but found an elf, a ranger, and a dwarf in the way. They were dealt with swiftly and harshly, falling to the stone floor in groaning piles of leather and bruises.

Two came for her, leering with yellow smiles and outstretched hands.

"There's a pretty," one growled, grabbing her shoulder. She broke his hand with a twist, then kicked him across the face for good measure. He crumbled to the floor, eyes shut and mouth bleeding.

The other tackled her bodily, using his weight and height to bring her down, but she controlled the momentum. When they crashed to the floor, she let herself roll, and ended up on top of him, her knees pinning his arms. He howled once before she slammed his head against the flagstones.

The third she did not see, and he grabbed her around the throat. It did not matter much, for the fight was done, his companions fallen. He was the last left standing, and so all saw Sakhra Shastaskar twist out of his grasp. She fish-hooked his cheek, two strong fingers in his mouth, forcing the man to scream as she led him towards a pillar. His head connected with a sick sound before he too fell to the floor.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the door guards watching, their eyes wide, as well as the many courtiers. _Good_. _Let them know who and what I am._

To her dismay, she saw Gimli had already gotten to Grima before she could. One iron shod boot sat on his chest and he cowered like the worm he was. She stopped at Gimli's shoulder and stared down at the pale beast.

"Try to run," she goaded, enjoying the surge of energy she felt from the battle. To her dismay, Grima did nothing but shake.

Gandalf had already climbed the dais, his staff but inches from Theoden's face. "I release you from this spell," he said, reaching forward, but the king shrank from his touch.

"You have no power here," the king laughed, his voice poisoned with dark and evil magic. "Gandalf the _Grey!_"

With a sneer, Gandalf moved back, pulling off his darker cloak, to reveal snow-white robes beneath. They caught the light of the dying fire and the few windows, becoming bright as the sun.

"I will draw you Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound," Gandalf the White growled, throwing his staff forward. The strength of it pushed Theoden back in his chair, his crown rattling against the wooden throne.

Another white shape streaked across Sakhra's vision, but this was no power of Gandalf's. She had blond hair and a fair face, but her air was stern and kingly. Aragorn grabbed her by the arm, stopping her from reaching the king. "Wait," he said, holding her firm.

More words passed between Gandalf and the parasite of Saruman, but only Theoden seemed to be weakening. Finally Gandalf yelled aloud, his arms raised. "Be gone!" and something snapped within the Rohirrim king. He sank back in his throne, hands over his face, but as he straightened, something strange happened.

Sakhra knew the wonders of Gandalf firsthand, but this was something marvelous on its own. Age fell from the old king like dust. His hair ran golden, his mottled skin cleared and a keen blue light returned to his eyes. Even his breath was stronger as he was returned to his old self.

Aragorn could hold the maiden no longer and she leapt forward, rushing to her king. Tears fell plainly as she smiled, overcome with joy and hope. Theoden was himself again.

The king smiled down at her, then his eyes passed to Gandalf. For a moment, he seemed confused to see the wizard, as if all that came before had been a dream. "Gandalf?"

"Breathe the free air again, my friend," he replied, and the powerful wizard he was melted back into the old man.


	18. Pieces From The Board

**Note: The 'Sakhra-is-36' thing will come up later, as she does indeed appear to be in her 20s, but actually isn't for some reason hmm hmm. Also, I imagine her hand-to-hand fighting style as something very smooth and slick, much like Black Widow in The Avengers.  
**

**As for Farzane, well, let's hope I get that far in the story. :)**

* * *

**KIRAMIR**

**XVIII - Pieces From The Board  
**

* * *

The cheer that came from the return of Theoden was short-lived. Even though Wormtongue was exiled, cast out from Edoras, and the shadow was thrown away, a somber air settled like a dark cloud. The king's son, a prince of Rohan, had died while his father was bewitched, and now his body lay still and cold within the hall of Meduseld. At the news, Theoden grew white and almost frail, the strength in his blue eyes receding. He had no words for this pain and no thoughts as to what must be done. But the pale maiden, another royal child judging by her bearing, was quick to act. Despite her own sorrow, she set to organizing the funeral with a stern will.

Among the black banners being laid out and white flowers gathered, Sakhra began her wanderings. It seemed they would not leave Edoras for some time, judging by Gandalf's mutterings, so it would do her well to know the place.

Meduseld was easy enough to master, with the great hall in the center of two wings. To the west were the kitchens and servants' quarters, as well a path to the barracks and the great stables. The eastern wing was more formal, with bedchambers, private rooms, and, to Sakhra's pleasure, a bath house she meant to take full advantage of in the coming days. She was hastily shown to her own chamber, separate from the others, which smelled of disuse and damp. But the bed was soft and when she threw open the windows, a fine breeze swept through the room. It was a palace compared to the old barracks of the guild, where she slept beneath a crumbling ceiling on nothing but straw and thin rags. And after long days in the wilderness, she had to smile at the sight of a bed and a wash basin.

It took everything in Sakhra not to slump back on the bed and rest, but she could not do so. Sleeping through a prince's funeral, even if she did not know him, would be considered rude. The Hasharina did not want to give the Rohirrim more reasons to dislike her. So instead she cast off her Elven cloak and folded it next to her sword, no doubt brought in by the door warden. A maid had taken the liberty of laying out a simple dress but Sakhra ignored it with a sniff. Surely Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had not been given clothing for a funeral. If their leathers were fine enough, so were hers.

Besides, the dress was long-sleeved and tight, with voluminous skirts. No self-respecting assassin, retired or not, would possibly trap themselves in such a thing. Sakhra Shastaskar had not survived the court of Harad by being a fool and, despite the presence of Gandalf, she would take no chances. Her daggers still hid in her boots and sleeve, just within reach should something go awry.

_Or if another guard can't hold his tongue._

Somehow the man's words still bothered her, even though they were nothing, less than mist or smoke. _Perhaps it is because the others heard him. I have no reason to be ashamed on my own, but in front of them…_

Her head swam with the thought. She traveled with the bravest and most honorable of peoples: a white wizard, the grim heir to the throne of Gondor, an elven prince, and even gruff Gimli was proper as a dwarf could be. In comparison, a woman in tight leathers with dark skin and darker tattoos, she must seem a harlot. _No wonder the guard spoke so plainly._ In another life, she might've used this to her advantage and played into the assumptions of others, but now her pride would not let her. And something she did not often feel curled in her belly. _Shame._

For a moment, she considered the dress again, then set her jaw and nearly ran from the room like a child outrunning a nightmare.

The maids gave her stiff nods as she passed, though many looked annoyed, even offended by her presence. But they said nothing to her. They were women of a royal court and so were well-practiced at holding their tongues.

"Forgive me, my lady." The voice was cold and made Sakhra spin on her heel, turning quickly to see its owner. It was not many who could come upon her unawares. But instead of a fleet-footed kitchen girl or scullery maid, Sakhra found herself looking at a vision of black and gold.

This was the pale maiden, the woman who held onto the king and commanded his house, but she was not his wife. Now instead of white, she wore deep black velvet trimmed with gold flowers to match her bound-up hair. Dressed for the funeral, Sakhra knew.

"I was taken in by the events of the morning and was not able to greet you properly, and welcome you to Meduseld," the woman said, nodding in what Sakhra thought was supposed to be a bow. "I am Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, and niece of King Theoden."

Sakhra returned the gesture, stiffly ducking her head. "May the sands warm you, Lady Eowyn," she replied, using the Haradrim greeting. It would only help her now to play into her heritage, as it was plainly written on her face and actions. "My name is Sakhra Shastaskar, of the Haradrim desert." _There's no need to bore her with the other names_, she thought, almost smirking to herself.

But instead of bowing again and hurrying off to attend her duties as Lady of Meduseld, Eowyn lingered. Her eyes roved over Sakhra's leathers, and she did not miss the dagger belted at her hip.

The Hasharina expected a sneer or a frightened glance, the usual treatment she received from noble ladies, but Eowyn did neither. Instead she tipped her head, gesturing down the hall. "Would you walk with me, Lady Shastaskar?"

It was an impossible request to deny, albeit a puzzling one. Nodding, Sakhra fell into step next to the maiden, all the while wondering after her game.

"You accompanied Gandalf, Lord Aragorn, the Prince, and Master Gimli across the plains." It was not a question, and there was something Sakhra could not place in the woman's voice.

_From Rivendell_, Sakhra wanted to say, but she was not so foolish. If Aragorn or Gandalf had not divulged the origins of their Fellowship, Sakhra should not either. "I did. Two of our friends were taken captive by servants of Saruman and we pursued them."

Eowyn's brow raised slightly and she glanced over Sakhra again. "On foot?"

"Three days on foot, and another on horseback."

"And you kept pace with the others?"

_Obviously._ "The dwarf is not hard to outrun," Sakhra said instead, biting back a sharper retort. But Eowyn sensed it anyways.

"Forgive me for my questions, but it's not often we see a woman like yourself." Her voice softened a bit and the lady let a hand trail to her hair. She wound a finger in an escaping tendril, letting it tighten around her like a chain. "You travel with men, armed like a warrior. And you were brutal with Wormtongue's men."

"I don't think so," Sakhra said with a shrug. "I left them alive."

Against her expectations, the Rohirrim maiden seemed to be fighting a smile. "You are quite a sight, Lady Sakhra."

_Lady. _The title made Sakhra's teeth clench, even though she knew Eowyn meant no offense by it.

Of court women, Sakhra had her share. In Harad they were lithe and sly, saying one thing and meaning another, with poison and roses dripping from every word. The Gondorians were less dangerous, but more scrutinizing. A lady of Gondor could smell an outsider from a mile away, making their halls more difficult to penetrate. But Sakhra had never been to Rohan and her studies were little help. There were stories of huts and hovels, thatched halls, pounding hooves, golden kings and the occasional shieldmaiden. But judging by Eowyn and the maids around her, the shieldmaidens were gone.

"Does my appearance offend you, Lady Eowyn?" Sakhra said, treading carefully as they reached the great hall again. Here the crowd of servants was larger, busying themselves with funeral preparations, and the two women were hardly noticed.

Eowyn's voice dropped, barely a whisper, but strong as steel. "Not at all. Once Rohan could claim women like you, ladies of steel and shields, but no longer." Then she fixed Sakhra with a piercing stare. "You'll find no opposition from me, where blades are concerned."

_The shieldmaidens are gone… but not forgotten_, Sakhra thought as she watched Eowyn return to her work.

* * *

Sakhra's explorations did not take long, and soon enough she found herself in the stables, murmuring with Ashere. It felt good to speak Haradaic with one who understood, even if the conversation was one-sided, and with an animal. She knew the horse understood her and was pleased to see her coat gleam and her eyes brighten. The Rohirrim knew horses better than themselves and the sand-mare was well provided for.

There were other mounts in the crowded stables, and Sakhra could only imagine the bustle of the more public stalls. Even here, in the king's house, on the day of a funeral, the stable teemed with energy and life. Stable-boys oiled tack and spread hay, while Rohirrim men tended to their great stallions. Hasufel and Arod were nearby, pleasantly quiet in their stalls, but another horse, a big red war charger, kicked and screamed against his wooden walls.

Soldiers and stable-hands alike rushed to aid the horse, pulling him from the stall before he could injure himself. Ashere tossed her head as the massive horse was pulled free, still whinnying and fighting. His eyes were wide, his breath heavy – the horse was afraid.

"He lost his rider," a voice said, and it was one she knew very well.

Sakhra spun to see Legolas, one hand packing Arod's neck, the other holding a bag of grain. His piercing gaze was not on her, thankfully, but the red stallion, and his brow furrowed. "It torments the beast. The mounts of the Rohirrim are bonded to their masters in a way that is hard to break. There will be nothing for him but to turn him loose."

"Surely an elf could soothe him a bit," she replied, watching how Arod seemed to melt into his touch. _His hands can be deadly. _She knew this firsthand, but that was not why her gaze lingered, focusing on the swift strokes of his fingers. It was not long before she felt a hot blush tinge her face and she turned away sharply, wishing for her veil.

_What is that for? _Legolas puzzled, watching her cheeks redden. It was not like Sakhra to blush or turn away, but now she did both. _Perhaps she is still ashamed. The guard at the gate would make anyone blush._ And then he flushed too, remembering the guard's words and his the anger he felt.

"How do you find Meduseld?" he said, prodding gently.

She knew what he was getting at and it irked her. _I don't need him worrying about my feelings._ To keep her hands from shaking, she busied herself with adjusting Ashere's Elven tack. It didn't suit her well."They kept their mouths shut, if that's what you mean."

"Good." Then he heaved a breath, willing himself to continue. "I am sorry for what the guard said-," but she held up a hand. Her eyes were sharp, her face pulled in exasperation. She looked like she did months ago, when she faced down Boromir in those first days of the quest.

"Words do not interest me, Legolas. If they did, I'd still be in Harad cutting through every person who ever called me a whore a or a harlot or a demon or a bed slave, or a thousand worse things." She didn't bother to check her voice, and a few passing men stopped to listen. "You know what we're doing here, what we're trying to achieve. Do you think I _care_ about anyone's opinion?"

_That's not true,_ the voice in her head murmured. _You care about his opinion._ But she gritted her teeth, keeping the words from slipping loose.

The elf shifted, uncomfortable for once. She was right, of course, but that didn't mean he had to like it. "And you know me," he replied, finding a fire of his own to match hers. "It is not in my nature to let my friends be treated the way you are."

She wanted to smile at that, but smiling would mean he had won. "Then I'll be sure to visit Mirkwood where your nature holds some sway. But here, in a kingdom of men, you'll just have to control yourself."

His lips twitched, then curved into a smile. In her head, she heard victory bells. "I told you, we call it the Greenwood."

"Don't change the subject."

"Is that what you're wearing to the funeral?"

Legolas laughed outright when she punched his arm.

* * *

The funerals she had attended in Harad were nothing like this. In the South, they were celebrations of life, a feast of sight and sound to send a soul off into the stars. There was singing, drinking, dancing, all of it lasting for days, until the bowls of lit oil burned to nothing. Then they would wrap the body in white silk, kiss the eyes of the departed, and give them back to sand and stars with joyous farewells. But it was not so in Rohan.

All of Edoras partook in the procession, lining the great way down from Meduseld. Peasants and lords alike bid farewell to the prince Theodred, and Sakhra saw a good many girls weeping openly. She followed along with Legolas and Gimli, but Gandalf and Aragorn were farther ahead, accompanying the king and the corpse. Already the Ranger had taken on a more noble air, though he was loathe to admit it. He wanted nothing more than to hang back with the Hunters, to walk with them as he once did, instead of having to avoid the prying eyes of curious courtiers.

When they reached the gates of Edoras, the sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the stretch of burial mounds that lined the road ahead. White flowers like stars covered the graves, and each looked solemn and ancient. The farthest from the gate was waiting, already crowded by another group of mourners. _Soldiers_. Theodred's men, the ones who remained. Lady Eowyn stood out amongst them, a pillar of wavering strength, and but for her gown, she looked like a soldier too.

The Lady of Rohan sang aloud as the body of her cousin passed, born aloft on the shoulders of stout Rohirrim. The language was harsher than Westron, and Sakhra found she understood pieces of it. _Evil death._

When the body passed her by, its face cold and white and young, Sakhra could not agree more. To her horror, she found herself seeing another face with pale skin and blonde hair. The vision made her breath catch in her throat and fear sang in her blood. It was all she could do to stop from turning to her side and reaching out to Legolas, assuring herself he was still there. She bit her lip, almost drawing blood, and her hand fumbled with the chain at her neck. She drew out Galadriel's gift and closed her hand around the stone, letting its coolness calm her.

Next to her, Legolas shifted, sensing her unease. But at so solemn an affair, he found he could not say anything to calm her. Instead, he let a hand rest at her side, his fingers barely touching her inner arm. To his surprise, she did not flinch away.

Gimli's own attention was across the mouth of the tomb, on the dead-eyed king who could barely watch as his son's body entered the black embrace of darkness and death. The king's body had been healed by Gandalf, but what of his mind? _Where will this road lead?_

He glanced back at his companions, wondering if they saw the danger too, but instead found them both staring at the yellowed ground, with Legolas's hand between them. _I already know where that road goes_, he thought. Anywhere else, he would have laughed aloud.

Long they stood, listening to Eowyn and the soldiers sing, watching the king struggle to understand. Finally the mourners left, turning to march back to Meduseld, and only Gandalf and the king stayed behind.

Free to join his friends again, Aragorn was soon at their side. He looked cleaner than he had in months and Sakhra supposed he had taken full advantage of the bathhouse. _Already acting like a king_, she thought, _as much as he might hate to admit it._

"Theoden will not abide the death of his son," Legolas said aloud, but his gaze was forward. They were approaching the gate. If the offensive guard was still on duty, and if he thought to so much as _look _at Sakhra in a way that displeased him, there would be blood spilled. "Wars have been started over less," he added, more for himself.

Gimli shook his head, beard waggling with the movement. "I'm not so sure. The lad was killed by Saruman's orcs, yes, but Theoden will not ride against the wizard. He doesn't have the spine for it."

"He's still healing from years of torment. His spine will return," Aragorn murmured, and Sakhra could tell he did not believe the words. Despite her vision, she had seen the king's face and his grief. He looked like a father, not a king, and fathers were not what they needed right now.

The gate loomed, but thankfully, the guards were not the same as before. These ones nodded dutifully at the Hunters, having heard of their exploits both on the plain and in Meduseld. After the guards were long behind, and the noise of Edoras rose to meet them, their talk continued.

"Gandalf means to use Rohan as a shield, blocking Saruman from joining with Sauron," she said quietly, and read her answer on Aragorn's face. Gandalf often kept his plans close to the chest, but this one was easy to deduce.

"Gondor cannot fight a war on two fronts," Aragorn replied, his voice sharp and defensive.

He wanted to be done with this, she could tell, but pressed on. "This is not about just protecting Gondor, and to think so will ruin us."

For a split second, she saw a bit of Boromir in Aragorn, and she knew thoughts of Minas Tirith were flashing in his mind. It made her heart ache for the fallen warrior, but she did not soften.

"Gandalf means to protect us all with his play, not just your people, or mine, or the elves, or the dwarves. In the coming days, we don't fight for Rohan, we fight for us all. Or else we will lose."

There was something in her voice, in her face, that quieted even Gimli. Sakhra was a stern judge of character and conscience, and her words held weight with them. She knew firsthand the darkness they were fighting, and of the four, knew to _never_ underestimate it. Every battle, every skirmish from this day on, must be won for freedom, not honor. For all the free peoples, not for a king. Not for a name. Not for glory. For the right to live, and live free of darkness.

"It's how Sauron wins," she added in a lower, darker voice, and her face clouded over with some painful memory. "He will try to divide and conquer, to remove the pieces from the board one by one."

She was right, and Aragorn knew her knowledge of the Dark Lord was bought at too high a price. _A price we needed her to pay, no matter what she did in that life before._ Though he had balked at her once, suspected her even, the ranger would never do so again. Gandalf vouched for her before and, if need be, Aragorn of the Dunedain would vouch for her a thousand times, before the Steward of Gondor if he needed to. She was an able warrior, a cunning hunter, and a good friend.

But as he watched her walk, ascending the steps of Meduseld with an elven prince at her side, something whispered at the back of his mind. _Do not trust her. For she cannot trust herself._ But because of her past, or because of the elf, he could not say. And even though Aragorn was a shrewd man, he knew there was more beneath her tattoos, hidden in her smooth skin and strange years, that had not let come to light.

Inside the great hall, Lady Eowyn idled by the hearth fire, her eyes shadowed and far away. Despite her straight back and stern features, she looked small and weak and alone. Sakhra remembered how the noble woman smiled at her, even _approved_, and she found herself sidling up to Eowyn.

"Your brother will return soon," she said aloud, crossing her arms over her chest. Sakhra was careful to wear an open expression, the kindest she could muster up. "Now that the king's mind is his own, he will call back all those banished in Wormtongue's name."

Eowyn did not look up, instead nodding slowly. "Yes, I suppose so." But her voice was weak and unbelieving. "How do you know Eomer?"

With a swing of her head, Sakhra gestured across the hearth, to where the other Hunters had commandeered a long wooden table. Aragorn and Gimli were already smoking, the scent of pipeweed wafting up to the rafters, while Legolas leaned against a pillar. Like Eowyn, he stared into the fire, lost in his own thoughts.

"We came upon him on the plains. Your brother and his eored beat us to our prey," she said, wrenching her eyes away from the prince. "Good men ride with him, worthy of Rohan."

When Eowyn finally drew her eyes away from the fire, she didn't turn to look at Sakhra. Instead, her gaze pierced across the haze of smoke, to where Aragorn sat. It lasted but a moment, but Sakhra knew the sight well. It was often something men directed at her, or she at men.

_Farzane,_ something whispered, but she pushed it away. Another name tried to crawl up out of her mind, but that one she refused to hear at all.

Before Sakhra could speak, to try and draw Eowyn's attention away from the ranger, something else did the job for her. The doors of Meduseld swung open, the wood rattling against the walls, and the king entered like a hurricane. Across his arms lay a boy, barely three and ten, with golden hair and white skin. Another soldier carried a girl, though she was younger, and her eyes were wide and bright. Gandalf followed them both, his face pulled in concentration and, to Sakhra's fear, what looked like fury.

"Bring food and blankets," Theoden barked, and Eowyn was gone before the doors could shut again. The others jumped to attention, with Aragorn reaching out his arms to take the boy, but the king waved him off.

"Eothain wouldn't eat the food," the little girl said, her voice high but very weak. "He said he didn't like it. He made me eat instead."

The soldier tried to hush her as best as he could, patting her on the back, but it was no use. Sakhra felt an odd pull to the little girl, and almost stepped forward, but something kept her rooted to the spot. While the others cleared the table for the boy and Eowyn returned, she didn't move an inch. The scene was too intimate, too real for her to understand. These were great warriors bent over children, attending to them like servants to a king. _Like parents to their sons and daughters._

It felt foreign to her, and unfamiliar. Sakhra's father was a sword, her mother was poison. She did not know the ways of family, no matter how tightly the guild tried to hold on her.

When the boy came to, his eyes flying open after Eowyn ran a cool rag across his brow, all her discomforts were chased away.

"They burned our village. They killed everyone," he said, his strength already faltering again. Before anyone could ask who, the boy sat up, grabbing the king by the arm. "Orcs of Saruman, men of Dunlend, and worse creatures. The Westfold burns."

* * *

Though Eowyn had looked very much like she wanted to stay behind, Theoden commanded her to feed and attend the children properly, and she obeyed. With a backwards glance, she left the hall, a shivering child under each arm.

In a few breathless moments, the hall emptied of the maids, servants, and courtiers, leaving behind only Gandalf, the Hunters, Theoden's advisors, and the king himself. He sank into his throne almost gratefully and gripped the seat with clenched hands. His pale blue eyes blazed about the room, taking in the faces he knew and the ones that were more unfamiliar.

"Lady Sakhra, would you wish to accompany the Lady Eowyn?" the king said, as if he suddenly realized the Hasharina had not left with the other women.

His words put a crackling tension in the air. The Rohirrim generals, hardened men with gray in their beards, looked at her strangely, expecting her to go, but her companions knew she would not. Aragorn uncrossed his arms, about to speak on her behalf, but the Hasharina would not let him. _I have my own voice and they would do well to hear it._

"I would not, my lord," she replied. Her voice was hard but not disrespectful, and she even inclined her head a fraction. "Like my companions, I have come to aid you in the defense of Rohan. I can do no such thing in the kitchens."

To her delight, she thought she heard Gimli disguise a chuckle as a cough.

But one of the generals bristled, even taking as step towards her, and it took everything in Legolas to remain still. "We have no need of women on a war council, let alone a Haradrim snake."

Sakhra didn't flinch at him and she looked like the picture of calm. "This snake has fought many battles, sir, and there are many battles yet to come."

"Peace, Thain," the king said, raising a hand to stop his general before he could retort. Then he leaned forward on his throne, scrutinized Sakhra with a keen eye, taking in her leathers and her blades in a single glance. "I've heard tales of your kind, my lady. If less than half of the Hasharin stories are true, then we would be lucky to have you with us."

Despite her controlled nature, Sakhra felt herself flush with pleasure, and she bowed her head to hide her pink cheeks. "Thank you, my lord."

"Besides, I remember what you did to Grima's men. You know your way around a brawl, at the very least," he added. And though he offered her the slightest of smiles, Sakhra could tell it was not for her benefit. No, the king was trying to appease Gandalf, and perhaps Aragorn. They were the great men in Meduseld and he did not want to cross them, not over some insignificant girl they insisted on dragging along.

With the issue of Sakhra over, Gandalf wasted no time plunging into the problem at hand. He ascended the steps of the dais, almost standing over Theoden as he spoke. "What happened to those children, their village, is but a taste of the terror Saruman will unleash. His hordes will burn your land and your people with it."

"Unless?" Theoden said, almost biting out the word. He was a king and he would not be dictated to, even by one such as Gandalf.

"Unless you right out and meet him head on!" Gandalf replied, leaning forward. His hand grazed the arm of Theoden's throne and Sakhra did not miss Theoden tighten at the motion. "Draw him away from your women and children. You must fight!"

But Theoden said nothing, moving only to run a hand over his yellow beard. His inaction rankled the Hunters, Aragorn most of all. With a will, the Ranger took sharp steps towards the throne.

"You have two thousand good men riding north as we speak. Eomer leads them, and he is loyal to you." His clear blue eyes sparked with determination, as if he alone could make the king see some reason. "They will return and fight for their king."

Sighing, Theoden stood from his throne and began to pace, his arms clasped behind his back. Quietly, Sakhra wondered if he wished to be out of Gandalf's shadow, instead of beneath him.

"Eomer is three hundred leagues from here by now. He cannot help us," he muttered, lamenting the loss of his nephew. But then his voice and face hardened, his knuckles turning bone white as his fists clenched. "I know what it is you would have me do," the king said, turning sharply to face Aragorn. "I will not bring further death to my people, to Rohan. I will not risk open war."

"Open war is upon you, whether you would risk it or not!" Aragorn snapped, forgetting himself for a moment. _We don't fight for Rohan._ Sakhra's words echoed in his head like a mournful bell. _This is how Sauron wins._

The king was not a man to suffer slights. His eyes narrowed dangerously, but he kept his own anger in check. "When last I looked, Theoden, not Aragorn, was King of Rohan. No matter what your bloodline might be."

Whatever tension might have come from her presence seemed to have increased tenfold, and even Gandalf could not seem to stop it. Sakhra could feel her heart thrumming in her chest, worried at what this might devolve into. At her side, Legolas heard her heartbeat quicken and they exchanged worried glances. He knew Aragorn's temper, slow as it was, and did not wish to tempt it.

"Then what is the king's decision?" Gandalf finally said, moving to step between Aragorn and the king. He was careful to emphasize the word _king_, and bowed his head a bit in Theoden's direction.

Almost sneering, Theoden stepped back. His generals already knew his mind and the one called Thain even nodded in agreement. "The city will empty. We make for Helm's Deep to ride out this foul storm."

In that moment, Sakhra almost wished she could return to her assassin ways, forcing the crown to another. This was madness. This was foolish. Even the brute Eomer would not have ordered this course. And she knew her friends agreed, judging by their downcast eyes and pursed lips. The Deep was a mistake.

_It is also a fortress. A safe haven._

_A massacre._


End file.
